


The Bones of What we Believe

by ladythecla



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gen, Mentions of Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Mentions of Female Hawke/Isabela, Slow Burn, mentions of past sexual assault and harassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2019-09-18 14:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 138,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16996791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladythecla/pseuds/ladythecla
Summary: More than anything else, his kindness frightened her. He always had a gentle gleam in his amber eyes, a hint of a smile on his face. She remembered too well the mantra he'd repeated to her whenever they argued: "You have nothing to fear from me." And when he smiled at her, face basked in golden afternoon sunlight, she wanted to believe it was true. But, if her past in the Circle had taught her anything, it was that Templars weren't to be trusted, especially the ones with lilting voices and soft smiles.





	1. The Ghosts that Define Us

Petrina would’ve rather died than join this fledgling Inquisition, but she was also never one to run from her problems. Maker knew how she’d tried to help her people in Ostwick. _And the little good it did them, did me._ Breath tore from her into the freezing morning, white clouds streaking the alpine cold. She hadn’t a choice. Half of Southern Thedas thought her guilty already, as what else could’ve caused an explosion of that size and devastation up at the Conclave? Mages were already easy targets, seen the villains for fighting for their freedom. No one ever considered how the Templars behaved. The Chantry gave their pets all the room in the world to run amok like rabid hounds. _“Hello, Trevelyan,”_ his liquor-addled voice purred from the depths of her memories. She squeezed her eyes shut, grateful for the reprieve from the unending white of Haven’s perpetual snow cover.

“There you are.” Her eyelids snapped open at the lilting Fereldan voice. Commander Cullen peered down at her, mild concern in his fair brown eyes, caution and trepidation clinging to his expression. The soft hum of lyrium clung to him yet, a dead giveaway of his former role. Even if she hadn’t known from the scent, she could’ve told from the rigid set of his shoulders when he spoke to her, the way he never quite focused on her. Some of her siblings had been given to the Templar Order, and while Elise had never taken to the rigidity of that militaristic lifestyle, Harold behaved much like Cullen. Stiff, distrustful, uncertain, too formal.

_Never trust a Templar._ “Yes, here I am,” Petrina said, focusing on the snap and hiss of flames in the fire pit before her. It was Varric’s fire, technically, though today the dwarven novelist was off investigating something with Ambassador Josephine Montilyet. Someone was selling books under Varric’s name, poorly-written books that would impact his brand. At least, that was how Petrina understood things. She stretched her fingers toward the snapping flames, sighing at the warmth that nipped at her freezing digits.

_Why are you here?_ Snow and grit crunched as Cullen moved closer. Petrina tensed as his shadow dipped over her. “I was hoping you and I could… talk…” His sentence trailed off. She set her jaw, knowing too well what this was about. Beyond her fire, beyond Haven, a gaping green-grey maw hung in the sky over the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Breach, the tear in the Veil responsible for the rifts spouting demons all over Southern Thedas, for the painful verdant mark on her left hand. _For me being here._ Closing it alone was out of the question.

She hadn’t even suggested going to the rebel mages. Seeker Cassandra had, surprisingly, proposed the idea. As the former Right Hand to the dead Divine Justinia V, it was quite a shock to hear such a pious woman suggest seeking out rebel mages. King Alistair had granted the mages sanctuary in Redcliffe, a courtesy his wife Queen Brynn Cousland would’ve endorsed, had she been around. Saying that aloud was close to blasphemy in the minds of many Fereldans, though. Brynn had slain the archdemon during the Fifth Blight. Petrina couldn’t attack superstition with a legend’s name. A legend’s name that her people didn’t have a right to invoke.

So, rather than using the queen’s name, Petrina cleared her throat and fixed a baleful look on Cullen. “So talk, then.”

His throat trembled, then a wavering smile quirked the scarred corner of his mouth. “Right,” he said, “well, I just wanted… to tell you that I’m not unopposed to an alliance with the mages.”

“You could discuss this with Cassandra. It’s her idea, you know.”

“I tried that, and she told me to speak with you.”

Nose curdling, Petrina nodded. Sunlight lanced across her hand, catching on the fine gold of her signet ring. House Trevelyan’s owl glared back at her, talons outstretched, eyes flashing even in the metal. _Modest in temper, bold in deed._ “What do you want to say to me?”

He recoiled somewhat at her sharp tone. She tucked a victorious grin into the turn of her head. “Just… you’re safe here. I will accept whatever you choose to do.”

“It’s not up to me,” she assured him, rising to her feet. There were no shackles in the Inquisition, but her every movement was watched. A moniker like the _Herald of Andraste_ was a sure way to keep her in line, along with that perpetual superstitious disdain for mages. No one told her she _couldn’t_ leave, but it was implied that leaving would be a _bad_ idea.

Pink swelled against his cheeks. “Ah, I merely meant… that you… ah, you can… you’re going to be our deciding vote. In that sense, it is up to you.”

She halted in her tracks, fingers clawing at the velvet of her tunic sleeves. “Then you know my decision,” she forced out against the cotton clotting her throat.

“I will not interfere.”

“See that you don’t.” Twisting at her signet ring again, she hurried off toward the tavern. At least the buzz of alcohol in her head would keep the memories back. But, she recalled that damned brute’s hands on her as easily as she had that afternoon in the library’s hushed confines. The cynical part of her dwelled on how he screamed when she drowned him in fire as the Circle crashed in around them, the reek of his scorching skin and hair stinging her lungs. It would never be enough.

_“You’re too angry, Petra. That’s your problem. If you were just a little happier, things would be easier for you,”_ Elise used to lecture. Petrina shook that refrain from her thoughts as she inched into the tavern. Raucous laughter hit the air. Across the way, she glimpsed the Iron Bull’s enormous Qunari form dwarfing the crowds, face stricken with an enormous grin. At his side was the blonde elven archer Sera, cackling about something else. The group around them was red-faced and bright-eyed with wonder. _Good, at least no one will focus on me._

Petrina ordered the strongest whiskey in the tavern, letting it char her throat. It was far too early to be drinking but speaking with Cullen had that effect on her. The man wasn’t infuriating as an individual. No, what she despised was that persistent lurk of lyrium in his veins, the caution he wore around her as if she was a newly broken horse about to buck. That was infuriating. For a man so set on _not_ being seen as a Templar, he wore that role as a king’s crown. _And are you any different?_

She rolled her lips together. Light danced against the amber whiskey in her glass. The Libertarian Fraternity in Ostwick had worn amber robes, a stark contrast to the deep greens of the unaffiliated Circle mages and apprentices. She still recalled the horror on her mother’s face upon learning of _that_ affiliation. _“Are you mad or simple, girl? You realize this will surely ruin us far more than your damnable magic!”_

_“I can’t leave them, Mother! They need someone to fight for them,”_ Petrina had responded. That choice had cost her two or three visits home that month, and any chance of ever attending one of Aunt Lucille’s summer balls was permanently cut off.

It hadn’t been about the fraternity, not really. Bann Trevelyan didn’t care one pearl string for mage politics. No, it was about the _magic_. A symbol that House Trevelyan wasn’t untainted, that its Tevinter ancestry was _still_ connected, that no amount of prayer would fix magic. Petrina downed more whiskey, loathing the rattle of her fingers against the cold glass. _He_ also had plenty of opinions about her status as a highborn mage. Nicknames ranged from “uppity bitch” to “queen of the mages.” _“All the money in the world won’t save you now, whore,”_ he’d preened that night when the Circle at last revolted. The idiot had forgotten to purge her, or perhaps he had no lyrium left. Either way, what came next was too easy, years of revenge went into that inferno she wrought on him.

_Yes, the proud rebel mage who fended off her would-be rapist is now here to help her people with a Chantry organization._ Petrina snorted. This was beyond stupid. “You never struck me as the sort to drown your problems in liquor,” a voice sniffed at her back. She hunched over her whiskey, unwilling to meet Solas’s judgmental grey eyes. At least he didn’t have the Trevelyan silver irises, for she wasn’t sure she could’ve kept her face straight in that case.

“I ran into Cullen again, and I just needed something to help me forget…” She trailed off, slanting a look back at the elven mage. He had a ginger brow raised, curiosity hewn into his pasty, angled face. The revelation hit her as she drank in his patched tunic and breeches, the dearth of a staff on his back. _Apostate, remember._

“Forget what?” he asked.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said, gulping down more whiskey.

“It’s rather hard to discern that when you’re not exactly being forthright about…”

“The Circle!” she snapped, temper unfurling. Whiskey sloshed from her glass as she brought it down on the bar counter.

Solas blinked at her, then sympathy blistered in his gaze. “I see.”

She swallowed, forehead resting against her hands. “I apologize. It’s… I would rather have left it all behind, that’s all I meant.”

“I understand, but alcohol will create more problems than it will solve.”

“Thanks, Father,” she sneered, downing more whiskey.

Solas eased onto the stool at her side. “Are you always this prickly?”

She clicked her tongue. “We’re talking about the Breach again, once the ambassador returns with Varric.”

“I take it the commander has issues with your decision.”

“Always,” she said, unable to hold back her beckoning smirk.

“Perhaps the time has come for a change,” Solas maintained, focusing on a crack veining through the ceiling, “after all, the Chantry couldn’t keep a hold on things when it _had_ a Circle.”

“I hope so,” Petrina conceded. From the glares people threw her when she passed, alongside the withering whispers about the allegations against her, it was plain the Chantry would need a miracle to survive. Its followers were as backwards as its clergy. Changing the Chantry would require a level hand at its helm.

“I didn’t come here to talk philosophy and alcoholism, though,” Solas mused, inclining to her hand. “I want to do another examination, if you don’t mind.”

Petrina stifled a groan. “Fine.” She chugged the last of her whiskey, wincing on the trek out the door with Solas. Across the way, she caught a flash of golden hair turning toward a set of sparring recruits. The familiar din of clashing blades and shields filled the air.

* * *

 

Haven’s war room was really just a makeshift study at the back of the town’s tiny Chantry. The study itself was dominated by an enormous table bearing a map of Southern Thedas now littered with pins and knives, each little marker representing something different. If Petrina was honest, she understood about _half_ of the coding system. It didn’t matter, not really, since the moment Josephine arrived, Cullen and Leliana each retreated to their respective camps regarding alliances to close the Breach. Cassandra just listened to the pair bicker for a moment, her scarred and hawkish face impassive as those pensive hazel eyes studied the map. It was Josephine who breached the arguing.

“I suggest we ask the _Herald_ for _her_ opinion,” Josephine suggested, nodding her pretty brown face in Petrina’s direction.

Dryness ran down Petrina’s throat as Leliana’s shadowy blue eyes and Cullen’s stoic brown ones both made contact. “Right,” Petrina agreed, shoulders straightening, “we… should seek out the mages. Seeker Cassandra and Sister Leliana are right in that we need power to fuel the mark, and I…” _I was nearly slaughtered by Templars more times than I can count._ She released a breath through her nostrils, unwilling to meet Cullen’s eyes. “I am not comfortable in the slightest going to the Order, not when my people need help.”

“I’m told those that remain with the Order have a few sane ones in their numbers,” Josephine pointed out, tucking a raven curl behind her ear.

Cassandra nodded. “We met one in Val Royeaux. Ser Barris, I think.”

Petrina forced down a dry lump. Some in the Circle had said the same thing about _him_. He let the male apprentices stay up past their bedtime. “Be that as it may, we are _not_ going with the Templars.” This time, she scanned the faces of her advisors. Doubt radiated from Cassandra like plague from a corpse. Leliana had her mouth pursed in hushed approval, but Cullen was downright stony.

“We should send some agents to Redcliffe,” he suggested.

“I’m sure King Alistair won’t mind us marching our agents in unannounced,” Leliana chirped, “especially since Queen Brynn disappeared.”

“Contact the arl,” Petrina cut in, “surely he wouldn’t be opposed.”

“I will try,” Leliana assured the younger woman.

Cassandra pushed a hand through her short dark hair. “Let’s be careful this time, hm, Herald?”

Petrina scoffed. Words as familiar as her name pooled at the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to say them. _“I’m always careful, Rowan!”_ she’d laughed, elbowing her twin brother’s ribs. He’d shoved her next, face swathed in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Then, he begged her not to go to the Conclave. _I should’ve listened._

“Are we certain we can trust the Grand Enchanter’s offer?” Cullen needled.

“The mages need all the friends they can get now,” Petrina assured him. “Besides, are we certain we can trust the _Templars_?”

“We are _not_ doing this again,” Cassandra intervened, throwing a pleading glance at Cullen, “we’re going to get the mages.”

_And then we’ll seal the Breach, and hopefully I’ll be able to flee before these fanatics reform the Circles._ Petrina took one of the metal castles from Josephine’s little velvet-trimmed box beneath the table and planted that castle right over Redcliffe on the map. “We’ll head out tomorrow,” she said to Cassandra. “Make sure Varric and Solas are ready.” Taking Sera or the Bull along was a recipe for disaster, as neither was particularly comfortable with magic. Considering that the Bull had spent most of his past fighting men and women from Tevinter, his dread was understandable. Sera was a mystery in many ways, but her dislike of magic rivaled Petrina’s own irrational dread of spiders. Considering that elf never missed a shot, it was better to leave her behind.

Preparing for a journey through the war-torn Hinterlands was another matter, though. Petrina spent the bulk of that afternoon calculating supplies and polishing her worn ebony staff. The staff wasn’t hers, though she couldn’t quite recall where she’d gotten it. Her actual stave, the one she’d passed her Harrowing with, had been lost to Templar attackers somewhere after the Circle in Ostwick fell. If she thought long and hard enough, she remembered the feel of its cool silverite grip in her hand, alongside the crisp prickle of blue vitriol against her palm. Someone suggested making another staff for her, one of the knight-enchanter loyalists that First Enchanter Vivienne of Montsimmard brought into the Inquisition. Petrina declined the request, mostly because she had yet to _truly_ speak to the Inquisition’s lone Chantry loyalist mage. Polite discussions in Vivienne’s parlor about ties to the Inquisition were a world apart from genuine friendship.

Besides, Petrina wasn’t ready to face her ghosts yet. Every time she thought about Vivienne’s Aequitarian connections, memories of the Circle’s stilted formalities and hushed conversations came back in vivid color. _“There’s not going to be a war,”_ Petrina once scoffed to her Aequitarian lover in the solemn sanctum of her bedchamber.

_“There will be, if you and yours aren’t at least willing to compromise,”_ he’d returned, pinning her with that green stare of his. She’d laughed. It was just politicking. No harm ever came from a little debate.

Of course, saying that to a woman like Vivienne was certain political suicide. The Inquisition needed all the help it could get, so Petrina remained silent. Vivienne didn’t wear her scars the way the alleged Herald did, but they were beneath the surface of her composed expressions and those neat white gowns she wore to contrast nicely with her rich dark skin. She’d been an advisor to Empress Celene of Orlais for a time, and it was clear she still held clout in Orlais. Angering her would earn the Inquisition enemies it didn’t need.

Petrina avoided Vivienne. That strategy worked well, until tonight. As she finished the last of the supply rosters for tomorrow’s trek to Redcliffe, Petrina emerged to the hushed quietude of Haven’s Chantry. A lone figure was hunched over the shrine to Andraste, hands clasped in fervent prayer. At the slight scuff of worn deerskin on Chantry stone, the figure straightened. Grey hazel eyes moved to Petrina beneath dim candlelight. “Herald,” Vivienne greeted, “I had hoped to speak with you before your journey to Redcliffe.”

“Well, here I am,” Petrina said through a wave of discomfort.

“If Fiona and her malcontents are to be joining us, I’d like to discuss formal observation from the Templars,” Vivienne persisted.

Gooseflesh ran down Petrina’s arms. Cold blue eyes found hers across a crowded dining hall, a lewd grin stretching across a face too young to be so cruel. Against the dryness chewing at her throat, she coughed. “I… um… I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

Steel thrummed in Vivienne’s stare. “Have you ever seen an abomination, dear?”

“Plenty,” Petrina said. So many of her friends and companions had handed their lives over to demons in the Circle’s fall, frightened and uncertain against Templar might. Gestures done in the heat of desperation. Costly mistakes.

“Have you ever fought one?”

Eyes narrowing, Petrina crossed her arms. “What are you getting at?”

“Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous. Anyone who forgets that gets burned,” Vivienne recited, solemnity cracking her stoicism.

Petrina pressed her fingers into her palms. “You’re preaching to the choir.”

“Then I shouldn’t have to worry, is that it?”

“There has to be solution other than Templars… doing whatever they wish to the mages in their charge,” Petrina mumbled, stunned at how difficult it was to explain her position to this woman. Vivienne had origins in the Ostwick Circle. When she was transferred to Montsimmard, she soon became First Enchanter. Even the staunchest Libertarians admired her gusto. _And she’s right, isn’t she? Magic_ is _dangerous._

Pale, lifeless faces filtered through Petrina’s memories. Green eyes, glassy and listless, peered back at her from beneath a mussed set of red bangs. A silent plea stuttered on his lips. _“Run, Petra.”_ Then he withered away to the enormous, grey form of a pride demon with a bloodcurdling scream.

“What would you suggest, exactly?” Vivienne prodded.

“We could start by not imprisoning mages,” Petrina huffed.

Vivienne rolled her eyes. “We can deal with dissenting voices once order is restored.”

“And what does _order_ entail exactly?” Petrina prompted, bristling.

Vivienne jutted her chin toward the Chantry doors. “Getting things back to normal, soothing people’s fears and allaying their worries.”

“We shouldn’t have to shackle ourselves to console people.”

Vivienne raised a sculpted brow. “I’m aware of the crimes Templars have committed against our people, but are we any better?”

“We have not subjugated mundanes to prejudicial laws and treated them worse than animals.”

“You came from Ostwick, did you not?”

Petrina nipped at her lip. “I did.” _Here we go. I should’ve lied and left._

“Pardon my curiosity, Herald, I am simply wondering what you know of being mistreated by Templars.”

_“No one will believe you, Lady Mage. I am the pride of my family, the Chantry, this land. You are nothing more than a nuisance.”_ Petrina ducked her lashes. Shallow breaths trailed from her. She couldn’t explain it, not yet. He was dead, had been for a while, but the ghosts would not leave her. And Maker, she had far too many ghosts.

“Perhaps one day if I’m really drunk, I will tell you,” Petrina said, ramming her hands up against her underarms. “For now, I know the Circles aren’t in the mages’ best interests.”

“And you do not trust me to look after our people’s best interests?” Vivienne asked, smoothing out her skirts. She feigned disinterest in the conversation, fingers toying with a lace cuff on her sleeve.

Heart thundering at her ribs, Petrina tilted her head. “I don’t know whom to trust yet. All I know is that I want to help mages.”

“As do I.”

“You’ll forgive me my doubt in your sincerity. Your actions don’t exactly speak to trusting and championing our people.”

“To mimic that dreadful commoner saying, there is more than one way to tailor a gown.”

On that note, Vivienne rotated on her heel and retreated further into the Chantry. Petrina stood at the shrine to Andraste for a moment, studying the carved figure of the Chantry’s beloved prophetess. Even as a small stone idol, Andraste was given that same benign piety, eyes stretched skyward, a bowl of fire in her hands. She always offered that bowl to the heavens, as if the Maker would have use for a mortal’s flame. As if the Maker existed. House Trevelyan had four shrines in its main estate, and all were larger versions of this one. Andraste’s stone stare watched the Trevelyan siblings, noting every aspect of their lives from Elise’s liaisons with the local ladies to Gregory and Rowan’s boyish crushes on the stable hands.

Some found the notion of Andraste’s benevolent omnipresence comforting. Petrina only saw a woman who disliked and enslaved mages. Every justification for the abuses perpetrated by the Circle stemmed from some offhand remark or sentence Andraste made or wrote.

_Chantry apologists will never understand that._ “You’re still up?” Jumping, Petrina rounded on her heel. Cullen was rubbing at his own set of dark circles.

“I was… speaking with Vivienne,” Petrina explained. It didn’t matter. She had every right to be awake, to be walking around in here.

“I see.”

As his hand darted to the back of his neck, Petrina sighed. “Mage politics. You would’ve found it very boring, I’m sure.” _Or dominated the conversation with your irrational fear and hatred of magic._

“I have mistreated mages in the past because of my fear,” he said then, distance pooling in his expression, “but I will try not to do so here.”

“You simply _ooze_ trust, Commander.”

A wry smile tugged at his mouth, but his brows plunged. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

_Never trust a Templar._ She hurried past him, ignoring the bite of nightfall as she burst into the freezing town. Several Chantry sisters paused their recitations of the Canticle to watch her slog toward the cabin she’d been granted through the Inquisition. When she entered her cabin, moonlight glinted across her writing desk. A small parchment envelope was resting on that desk, sealed in golden wax. A lump hardened in her throat. She snatched the envelope, fingernails running over the seal. Emblazoned in the vellum was an owl in mid-flight, talons outstretched toward unseen prey. _Modest in temper, bold in deed._

_“No matter where you go or who you become, you will always be a Trevelyan. I trust you will remember that,”_ Bann Trevelyan echoed in Petrina’s ears, voice carrying over the din of rainfall beyond the estate’s windows. It wasn’t a reassurance, more a threat than a promise. _And she’s made good on it at last_.


	2. Indentured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Petrina's insistence, the Inquisition sets out to ally itself with the mages, but things have changed since the last time Petrina spoke with the former Grand Enchanter.

_Petra,_

_I would pay good coin to see your face as you opened this letter! I’m willing to bet you assumed you’d find Mother’s immaculate hand on this page. Well, I’m glad to disappoint you. For some odd reason, Elise, Cat, and Gregory trusted me with writing you. In truth, I wanted to make sure you’re alright. The rumors we’ve gotten here of the carnage at the Conclave have been wild and inconsistent. We’re told the mages have all retreated to Redcliffe, and any Templars have vanished. More than that, we’ve heard you’re the so-called ‘Herald of Andraste,’ in that you were sent from the Fade to seal these odd rifts spilling demons over our lands. Mother is at arms over the whole thing. She’s even taking to wearing those awful mourning veils again, Sister._

_I just want to know if you’re alright. Anything else is secondary, as far as I’m concerned. Things are crazy. I’m still at the University of Orlais, and I would appreciate a response when you can give one. I’m sure you’re quite the busybody yourself, being the illustrious_ Herald of Andraste.

_Love,_

_Rowan Trevelyan_

Petrina read the letter again over breakfast. Leave it to Rowan to pull the theatrics on her. He’d always been an ass. That didn’t make this any easier. She wouldn’t have a response until this mess with Redcliffe was taken care of, and Maker only knew how long that would take. _Not long, hopefully. Grand Enchanter Fiona seemed amenable to an alliance when we spoke in Val Royeaux._ Unlike the mages from Ostwick and a sprinkling at Montsimmard, Petrina was familiar with Fiona solely by name. Everyone knew of the slight elven woman who led their revolt against the Chantry. She was famous for being the only Grey Warden ever kicked out of the order, a badge she wore proudly. Though Petrina attended the College of Magi twice, she remembered well how Fiona held the room with those sharp pastel green eyes, head set high as if she was a queen mother.

As expected, Fiona hadn’t attended the Conclave. Rather, she sent an entourage from the Spire. They were noted for their full cheeks, bright eyes, and clean robes. Externally, they reeked of neutrality. Internally, they were mages. It was clear whose side they championed, even with all the ceremony.

 _And now they’re dead._ Tucking Rowan’s letter into her pocket, Petrina dabbed the crumbs from her lips. She cleaned her teeth before shouldering her ebony stave on the trek out the door. The others were waiting near Haven’s gates and when she drew near, Varric’s face tilted up toward Solas in stunned disbelief. Cassandra snorted at something the men said. Petrina tugged the hood of her jerkin up. “Shall we?” she asked the trio.

“Ready as ever, Firestarter,” Varric chirped, tossing a two-fingered salute at her.

She nodded. At least Redcliffe wasn’t far. “Hopefully the Grand Enchanter hasn’t done anything to jeopardize this alliance,” Cassandra sniffed.

Petrina champed down a heated retort. As one, they marched out the gates of Haven and into the brilliant morning light washing over the Hinterlands bordering the seam where Orlais and Ferelden met. The road was a familiar one, hewn with wagon tracks and horseshoe imprints. Most of the rebel mages and Templars had been driven from the Crossroads at the nexus of the Hinterlands fringing Redcliffe. The King’s Road remained treacherous the further one went into the trees, though. “It is a lot more peaceful out here without mages and Templars killing each other,” Varric remarked as Haven faded into the pines behind them.

“Yes, now all we need is an alliance to seal the Breach,” Cassandra huffed, striding ahead of the others.

“Always a downer, Seeker,” Varric muttered.

“Or a realist,” Solas suggested.

Petrina chuckled into the heel of her hand. Varric shoved his hands in his pockets. “You can be optimistic and realistic, Chuckles.”

“Is that your nickname for Solas?” Cassandra balked, brows rising.

Petrina stifled a laugh. Solas gave a prim nod. “It is comforting to know that whatever traits I lack, Master Tethras will invent them for me.”

“And our lady Herald is Firestarter,” Varric continued, attention flicking back toward Petrina.

Cassandra didn’t ask if she had a nickname. Considering her history with the dwarf, that was probably for the best. As Petrina understood things, Cassandra met Varric during a Chantry investigation into the mage revolt in Kirkwall. The Chantry had been seeking the so-called Champion of Kirkwall, an apostate mage with relations to House Amell known as Dahlia Hawke. By the time the Chantry arrived in Kirkwall, however, Hawke and the pirate she’d loved, Isabela, were long gone. As were any of Hawke’s other friends. Varric was taken in for questioning, forced to spill everything he knew about Hawke to the Chantry, including her personal relationships. To hear him tell it, Cassandra’s fellow Seekers had beaten him unconscious before dragging him off.

Though Petrina doubted things were that simple, she didn’t need more reasons to despise the Chantry. Still, Cassandra _wasn’t_ the Chantry. She hadn’t tortured or beaten Petrina in the immediate aftermath of the Conclave explosion. That was something.

“You could call people by their names,” Cassandra remarked presently.

“That’s boring. Besides, I remember people best by nicknames.” Varric paused, thumb raking over his jaw, “Except you, Seeker. No one else quite has your terrifying presence.”

“I consider it imposing,” Solas said, “and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Yes, the Chantry thrives on dread to coax obedience from its followers,” Petrina chimed in.

A pall fell over the group. Solas and Varric cast nervous looks at Cassandra, bracing for a heated retort. She gave none. Rather, she sighed as her shoulders fell. “I get the feeling you don’t quite care for the piety of your family,” she said.

Petrina clenched her jaw. “There’s nothing pious about treating a child like she’s diseased simply because she was born with magic.” A chilled wind wafted down the path, nipping at her cheeks. At the periphery of her present was her mother’s horrified silver gaze, the reek of charred chiffon mixing with the sweet scent of summer rain.

“You blame the entire Chantry for your family’s behavior?”

“Seeker,” Varric cautioned, “maybe we should just agree to disagree on this one…”

Nostrils flaring, Petrina tilted her head. “I blame the Chantry for robbing me of my childhood and birthright, and for…” She swallowed, bloodshed flashing behind her eyelids, blue eyes pleading through a curtain of flame for mercy.

_“MAGE-WHORE!”_

“You can’t blame the Chantry for the mistakes of a few individuals,” Cassandra persisted, concern painting her features.

 _“They will not care about what I do to you, Lady Mage. I could’ve had my way with you a thousand times before, and no one would bother. You think I don’t know that you can’t bear children? I could do what I wished to you without consequence, and all they’d do is brand you like the sow you are,”_ he’d purred that afternoon after supper, callused thumb running along Petrina’s cheek. _“You wouldn’t be able to refuse me then.”_ She slammed her forehead into his and ran for her rooms as he staggered around, clutching at the blood leaking from his nose. Thirteen years old then. He’d been eighteen, newly knighted. Too young to be so cruel.

Everyone saw the bruises she left on him from their encounters. Every Templar. Every mage. Every cleric. They _knew_. No one did a thing. The mages couldn’t do anything, but the Order, the clerics, the _Chantry_ , the Circle was a creation of the Chantry. At the least, the Chantry could’ve stripped him of his rank and position. _They never did._

“Firestarter?” Varric asked, a thousand leagues away.

Petrina snapped her eyes to Cassandra. “I blame the Chantry for doing nothing while we suffered, and then blaming us for having the _gall_ to fight for our dignity.”

Solas coughed into his hand. “As enlightening as this conversation has been, perhaps we should keep moving?”

It was Cassandra who broke the stare first, offering a nod in acknowledgement to Solas. Petrina hung back from the others for the remainder of that day. Every step of her feet on frostbitten Fereldan ground dredged up those uncomfortable memories of her time in the Ostwick Circle. Unlike Kirkwall or Ferelden, the Ostwick Circle had been housed in a castle once used by the Tevinter Imperium. Of course, every little crevice or passage to the outside was charmed or runed against magic. Three people managed to escape in all the years Petrina was there, and one was brought back on charges of blood magic. He was put to the brand, though she saw him _once_ in the stock room before he abruptly disappeared. For a Tranquil, he’d seemed nervous, fidgety, almost on edge.

_“I would like not to die.”_

_“Has someone said you’re going to die?”_

_“I don’t know. Please do not speak of this.”_

Petrina hadn’t said a word to anyone of that exchange. As she was told many times by her Templar stalker, it didn’t matter what happened to the mages. No one cared about them. They were disposable in every sense of the word. Tranquil were at the very bottom of the pole, shuttered from magic, from dreams, from the Fade. They made the most pliable pets, and _no one_ missed a Tranquil. Once made Tranquil, a mage lost all emotion and ability to cast. It was mutilation of the worse sort.

One didn’t need to do anything to be found worthy of Tranquility, either. A whisper of blood magic, an allegation of cavorting with demons, an accusation of blasphemy, that was all it took for an apprentice to be deemed worthy of the Rite. No mundane knew that sort of fear. It haunted Petrina for years after her Harrowing, the prospect of one day waking listless and vapid with a brand on her forehead.

* * *

 

Redcliffe was named for the red cliffs the town sat against, overlooking lake Calenhad. The Fereldan Circle of Magi had made its home on an island in the lake, in a tower once built by the Avvar. The tower was a crumbled heap of stone and timber now, at least as far as Petrina could tell from squinting at the distant island. Redcliffe was bustling with mages. She noted the different robe colors with a hint of pride: Kirkwall scarlet, Ostwick green, Ferelden blue, Orlesian navy. The Anders mages were all in white, robe designs reminiscent of those worn by the Chantry’s knight-enchanters thanks to the ornate gold and red accents. Of course, there was something _odd_ about Redcliffe.

Things began with the rift outside the city, which slowed and sped up time. Inside, one of Leliana’s scouts informed Petrina that no one—Grand Enchanter Fiona included—was expecting the Inquisition. “I don’t like this,” Cassandra muttered once the agent departed.

“I am _not_ leaving them here,” Petrina reiterated, moving into the town.

“A wise choice,” Solas agreed.

Though she wasn’t expecting them, Grand Enchanter Fiona had reserved the tavern for negotiations. Petrina took her time getting to the tavern, drinking in the sights of the town. No one would’ve known, at a bare glance, that this place had seen a Blight ten years earlier. Green grass wafted gently beneath the slight chill of impending autumn, and the trees were tall and strong, healthy. A statue stood at the cusp of the tavern of a young woman with short hair, nocking an arrow in a short-bow, form clad in blade-nicked leathers. At the base of the statue was a plaque: QUEEN BRYNN COUSLAND THE JUST, HERO OF FERELDEN. Awe burst in Petrina as she neared the statue. Everyone, even those in the Marches, knew about Queen Brynn. Nineteen when the Blight started, she was conscripted following the massacre of her family at the hands of their rivals led by Arl Howe of Amaranthine. _Nineteen. Too young._

“An admirer of the queen’s?”

She snorted, sliding a glance at the intruder into her solace. A redheaded man with bright, angled green eyes grinned back at her. He was swathed in Montsimmard white, robes devoid of the accents the Anders mages wore. “It sounds like you are too,” Petrina remarked, recognition nettling her as she drank in the slope of his nose and angle of his jawline.

“I have a personal connection to her, you could say,” the man said, frowning at the statue. “My sister is a Warden and took over as Commander of the Grey in Amaranthine after the queen stepped down.”

 _Wait._ Petrina bit back a laugh at her stupidity. That was how she knew him. There were two brothers of the infamous House Amell, the elder Nathaniel, an Isolationist from the Tantervale Circle, and Derrick who was sent to Montsimmard. “I’m surprised you aren’t with First Enchanter Vivienne, Milord,” Petrina admitted.

Derrick barked out a hard laugh. “We didn’t exactly agree on everything.” He paused, studying her. “I’m more surprised to find a hardline Libertarian here, Lady Trevelyan.”

Her nose curdled. “That’s my mother. It’s Petrina.”

“Have you had a chance to speak with young Lord Connor Guerrin yet?”

Petrina crooked an eyebrow. “Should I?”

“He’s convinced all mages are monsters who should be locked up, all because of this damn war.”

“Ah.” _An Aequitarian, then._

“I will advise you to be careful, though. Grand Enchanter Fiona may have offered an alliance to the Inquisition, but that offer is now off the table.” Derrick flicked a wrist toward the distant silhouette of Redcliffe Castle. “Arl Teagan is gone. A Tevinter magister has moved in.”

Ice thrummed in Petrina’s veins. “You can’t be serious.” That meant _one_ thing: Fiona had sold her people to Tevinter. The woman who had fought for mage liberation had sold mages like common trinkets.

 _Josephine is going to kill me if we pull this off._ Sympathy pooled in Derrick’s verdant gaze. “I wrote my sister at Weisshaupt, but she’s not in a position to do much, and she couldn’t tell me where the queen is…”

“I know,” Petrina cut in. They were alone out here. “Thank you for the information.”

“Stay safe, Herald,” Derrick recommended, pressing a pair of fingers to his temple, “there’s dark magic at work here.”

 _Magic which impacts rifts like that is also incredibly powerful._ Petrina retreated with a polite nod. Cassandra and Varric emerged from the crowd, the latter muttering about there being “too many dresses.” Solas was speaking with a set of Ostwick mages, probably learning more about the Circles. “We need to figure out what’s going on here,” Cassandra said as she neared Petrina. “Something is wrong.”

“A magister is in charge,” Petrina replied, “but I still intend to meet with Fiona, figure out what sort of arrangement she’s struck with this magister.”

“Of course she went to _Tevinter_.”

Bristling at the obvious implication, Petrina folded her arms. “They’re desperate. I don’t begrudge them that. If it were me, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

“Running away to Tevinter and indenturing yourself to a magister are two different things,” Cassandra reminded the younger woman.

Petrina quelled her response. They would argue about this later. Once the mages were safe and allied with the Inquisition. Readjusting her jerkin, she turned toward the tavern, quaintly called the Gull and Lantern, and strode through the door. Fiona was seated at a table near the back, though she stood in cautious decorum as Petrina entered. “Welcome,” Fiona gushed, Orlais lilting over her words, “agents of the Inquisition.”

“I heard an interesting rumor on my way in,” Petrina said, striding to the older woman’s table. “It was the strangest thing, but one of the mages told me this _outlandish_ tale about you selling your people to Tevinter.”

Color brimmed in Fiona’s marzipan cheeks. _Then it’s true._ “We had no other choice, Herald.”

Petrina slammed her hands down on the table, jostling several cups and plates. Tea splashed over worn hardwood as china rattled. “You _always_ have a choice,” she snarled. Demons danced at the back of her mind, the grey monstrosity that had once been her sweet Ollie with the tender green eyes and soft hands.

“The Templars were closing in on us,” Fiona insisted, “and people’s suspicions were turning to us. Had we other options, we would’ve taken them, believe me.”

Petrina pinched the bridge of her nose. “Who did you sell the mages to?” she asked.

Fiona cleared her throat. From an adjacent doorway came two men, one with greying dark hair, curiosity written into his hazel eyes as they found Petrina. At this man’s back was his younger counterpart, a pale fellow with sunken dark irises and thinning black hair, swathed in yellow silk. “Herald, this is Magister Gereon Alexius.”

“My apologies for failing to greet you and your companions at the door, Milady,” Alexius purred, offering a hand, “I was busy elsewhere.”

Petrina didn’t shake his proffered hand. “I hear you are leading the mages now?” _Leading_ was a misnomer for the power he now had over the mages.

“And I hear you are seeking mages to close the Breach,” he mused.

She tamped her brimming disdain. The man made her skin crawl. “You’re quite a long way from Tevinter, _Milord_.”

“As are you, _Milady_ ,” he replied, smirking, “I hear Ostwick is quite… temperate this time of year.”

“You know why I’m here, so let’s negotiate,” she urged.

Magister Alexius flapped his wrist toward a vacant table. Together, they sat down. “Felix, would you please send for a scribe?” Alexius asked his younger counterpart. He paused, nodding to Petrina. “Where _are_ my manners? This is my son Felix, everyone.”

Felix offered a bow to Petrina. That was when his knees gave out. She rushed to catch him, grunting beneath the weight. A light touch rustled at her pocket, then he stepped back. “Pardon me, Milady,” he said.

“Felix?” Alexius rasped, the concern startling. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Father,” Felix said.

Alexius’s brows plunged as he snatched his son’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you your powders. My apologies, my friends. We’ll have to continue this at a later… date.”

There was nothing to do but wave him and his son back out the tavern door. Once they were gone, Petrina fished around in her pocket. A folded piece of paper was nestled in the fabric. Neat, simple penmanship read: _Come to the Chantry, you are in danger._

“Mysterious,” Varric whistled from over her shoulder.

“It could be a trap,” Cassandra growled.

“Be that as it may, we have no choice,” Petrina said, “though we will be careful. Something is wrong here.”

“A prudent decision,” Solas returned, emerging from a nearby group of mages.

Petrina turned the note to ash in her palm. She inclined for the others to follow her. At least for now, Alexius wouldn’t be bothering them. That didn’t mean they had the run of the place, though. As they departed the tavern, she pulled her hood low over her forehead. _Always in the damned Chantry_ , she thought as they neared the Chantry’s red doors. “My money says this is a trap,” Varric was saying to Solas. “I’d bet three coppers on it being Antivan Crows.”

“Expensive,” Solas said.

“What are you two talking about?” Cassandra demanded.

“How our unfortunate lady Herald is going to meet her demise by following this note,” Varric replied.

Petrina retrieved her staff in one fluid motion. Thumbing her signet ring, she tugged one of the Chantry doors open. A hush dipped over the group as they slithered into the darkened Chantry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead. I'm a third year law student, so busy, and I also learned that my stupid fucking dumb-ass might have fucked my application for graduation. So, my $160k I spent on this degree might be down the toilet. The depression somehow implored me to post. xD Sorry for the lack of updates, I have an internship, and then there were scheduling problems with classes... the story is mostly written (I'm up to Trespasser, I think). So, this is happening one way or the other. Chapters will be longer. I didn't know how 3-4k words would look on Ao3, but it is something I've kept in mind starting around chapter 3 or 4. Sorry if there's a lot of white space.
> 
> As to other inane details I learned through reading, heh, turns out Warden Amell is one of five total children, all mages as well. I figured it'd be fun to have a sibling do a cameo? I like cameos. They make me smile. Cullen's first chapter is up next, so that's exciting. Oh, and thanks for the love, kudos, etc. :3 It means a lot and gives me faith in myself, which law school does nothing for, I'll have you know. xD


	3. Another Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at Haven, Cullen is forced to reconcile with the unfortunate reality of a surly and injured mage being the illustrious Herald of Andraste, alongside lingering ghosts from Kirkwall and Ferelden. The Iron Bull and Leliana pretend to help the wayward ex-Templar in his clumsy attempts at interaction and common ground with Petrina.

Cullen ran his hand through his hair, focusing on the report in his hand. As with most of Leliana’s information, the report was minutely detailed and specific. Much of the information he’d learned from speaking with Josephine, but Leliana had more resources than the ambassador. She’d collected a treasure trove of information on the Inquisition’s reluctant Herald of Andraste. Petrina Trevelyan was one of six, being the youngest of House Trevelyan’s main line. In order from eldest to youngest, there was: Gregory, Catherine, Harold, Elise, Rowan, and Petrina. Rowan was Petrina’s twin brother, a mischievous young man cast out of the Templar Order for “unbecoming and blasphemous conduct” at seventeen. He was sent to the University of Orlais following a finishing school deep in Starkhaven. According to Leliana’s report, Rowan was the only Trevelyan sibling to regularly visit Petrina in the Circle. He wrote her frequently, and he even visited her after her Harrowing to arrange a private celebration outside the Circle for her.

As to Petrina’s past in the Circle, things were rather vague. She, like every other apprentice, underwent a Harrowing at age eighteen. Though she passed her Harrowing, there were several incident reports filed on her behalf by First Enchanter Serrion regarding a Templar named Ser Wendell, a man five years her senior. The only thing Leliana’s agents knew about him was that he perished during the Circle’s revolt, body singed beyond recognition. If not for the shield welded to his back, he would’ve been unidentifiable. Cullen didn’t need a corpse to understand what transpired there, not when he’d seen the same thing multiple times in Kirkwall and Ferelden.

Apart from incidents with that Templar, Petrina’s record was clear. She was an outspoken Libertarian, but she was an impeccable mage. For a brief time, she even was permitted to study dragons in Tevinter at the Vyrantium Circle of Magi. She attended the College of Magi a few times during her time in Southern Thedas. First Enchanter Serrion _personally_ recommended that she attend the Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Leliana even had a copy of Petrina’s speech there:

 _We are gathered here today to discuss peace, but we mages don’t want a peace built upon our submission. For too many of us, myself included, we’ve been beaten, harassed, threatened, and worse, into subjugating ourselves beneath the Chantry’s yoke. I will not yield. We are not the monsters you think we are. We’ve revolted because we want our freedom to have families, to love, to have friendships, to_ exist _. Magic is dangerous, no one can contest that. We’ve all used it to murder those who hurt us, who raped us, who beat us, who threatened us. But_ they _, those monsters in Andraste’s mercy, have treated us worse than Fereldans do their mabari hounds and have remained unpunished._

_We are treated like villains for being born with magic. We are caged like animals because of that magic. We are hurt by Templars because in the eyes of the Chantry and those who follow it, we are little more than beasts who need culling. Look around at us, at these starved and hollow-eyed faces, and tell me who needs culling. Tell me that Hawke was wrong when I, like so many here, have been the victim of a Templar’s unwanted attentions and coercion. You know my family. House Trevelyan has connections to most of the major families in the Marches. They are a favorite of the Chantry. My sister Elise was stationed at the Chantry in Ostwick for many years. Harold was a Templar in the Tantervale Circle. My mother’s sister is a revered mother in the Chantry. That didn’t mean a thing to the Templars charged with being my overseers. To them, I was just another mage for them to use._

_Grunt and groan all you like, it won’t change reality. You know that either you or your friends did this to mages in their charge. You know this because you were there._

Cullen lowered the report onto the scrubbed table in his tent that doubled as his desk. Massaging his temples, he sighed. Her obstinance about the Templars gave away her past, but it was somehow different reading about it. In truth, he shouldn’t have read this report Leliana gave him. Petrina mentioned none of this to them. This felt wrong, rather like cheating in a game of chess.

He stashed the papers in the trunk at the foot of his bed. Insightful as they were, he didn’t want to read any more of them. Not without at least talking to Petrina. _As if she’ll let me._ As he locked his trunk, a voice beckoned from the mouth of his tent. “Commander, we have a… situation near the Chantry,” a scout called to him, one of Leliana’s battle mages from the staff on her back.

Cullen rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He rushed toward the Chantry, unsurprised to find several mages and Templars gathering about each other. The accusations were starting already, though he couldn’t discern much from the mesh of shouts. “Your kind killed the most holy!” a Templar spat to one of the mages.

“Lies! Your kind let her die,” the mage retorted, crimson flaring in his cheeks.

At those words, the Templar scoffed. “Typical mage, always shifting the blame…”

“Enough!” Cullen cried, stepping in between the men.

“Knight-Captain!” the Templar yelped.

Cullen rounded on the Templar. “That is _not_ my title, and _we_ are not Templars any longer! We are _all_ part of the Inquisition.”

“And _what_ does that mean, exactly?” a preening voice prompted from the cluster of onlookers. Chancellor Roderick emerged from the throng, flushed face beaming from beneath his ill-fitting dark cap. Malice glinted in his beady eyes.

“Here to make things worse, Chancellor?” Cullen asked. He flapped his arms at the mages, Templars, and gawkers. “Back to your duties, all of you!” To his surprise, the others fled back to their respective stations. Roderick remained, toying with the gold trim on one of his robe sleeves.

“I wonder, Commander, have you heard about Redcliffe?”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’re going to tell me all about it.”

“It just seems strange that an organization priding itself on Andraste’s name and teachings would _flout_ her guidance,” Roderick mused, tenting his fingers.

Across the way, Cullen glimpsed a flash of jet hair wending through the crowd. He tensed. By some mercy, Roderick trudged off to annoy someone else. Petrina sauntered into view from the opposite direction, curiosity written in those hesitant silver eyes. “Glad to see you didn’t torch the place while we were gone,” she intoned at her approach.

“What happened in Redcliffe?” he asked, opening a Chantry door for her.

“Cassandra will want to explain that, I’m sure,” Petrina murmured, slanting a look over her shoulder. Cassandra edged past a pair of dwarven workers, jogging to catch the door Cullen passed her.

“It is going to be… more complicated than we thought,” Cassandra explained as the three made their way to the war room.

“How complicated?” Cullen prompted. _It is_ always _complicated with mages._

Petrina had stilled, her expression turning ashen. “Let’s get to the war room.” Not another word was said until they were united before the war table again, Leliana and Josephine in tow. Then Cassandra explained about the magister taking over Redcliffe, his odd former apprentice Dorian turning against him, alongside a deathly ill son named Felix. It was more than a simple invasion, though. Grand Enchanter Fiona had sold the mages to the magister’s service.

“Typical,” Cullen ground out. Every rebel mage he’d ever known had idolized Tevinter, even that damned fool Anders that Hawke used to tote around. It made some sense, as Tevinter had always let their mages do as they wished.

Across the table, Petrina’s knuckles whitened against the edge of the war table. _Careless._ Cullen pushed a hand through his hair. She gnawed on her lower lip. “Whatever your _personal_ thoughts on the matter, we need to get Tevinter out of Redcliffe.”

“True,” Leliana swept in, “we will have to oust Tevinter, unless we want a hostile foreign power on our doorstep.”

“Out of the question,” Josephine interrupted, looking up from her note taking, “an _Orlesian_ inquisition marching into Ferelden would provoke a war…”

“There has to be another way into the castle,” Petrina interrupted, fixing her attention on Leliana.

“There is a passage I recall Queen Brynn and King Alistair using during the Blight,” Leliana conceded, “an escape route for the family. It used to rest in the windmill overlooking the town, and I’m sure it’s overgrown now, but you could use that.”

Cullen cleared his throat. He knew the passage she was discussing. “Too narrow for our troops, and your agents would be discovered before the Herald even reached the throne room.”

“That’s why we’ll need a distraction, like the envoy the magister wishes for,” Leliana said, producing a slim sheet of paper.

Petrina crooked an eyebrow. “What is that?”

“The magister sent a message while you were on the road back,” Josephine said.

A wry smile quirked at Petrina’s scarlet mouth. “Isn’t that kind of him? What does he say?”

“He’s so complimentary that we’re convinced he wants to kill you,” Leliana admitted. “But he _has_ invited you to negotiate about the mages.”

 _It’s a trap._ Cullen curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He didn’t need to irritate her further. “Then our agents will need to be quick,” Petrina said, forehead creasing as she scrutinized the map.

“Fortunately,” an accented voice huffed, “you’ll have help.” The war room door flew open. In sauntered a young, mustachioed man clad in an outfit positively studded in gemstones. From the way his grey eyes found Petrina’s, and the smiles they traded, Cullen guessed this was Dorian. Cassandra described him as “pompous,” and that was an understatement. Given his stride, Dorian was used to being the center of attention, the best at all he did, and _praised_ for whatever he did. Distaste settled in the back of Cullen’s mouth.

“We’ll take all the help we can get, Lord Pavus,” Leliana said, producing several parchment scrolls from a nearby shelf. Unfurling the scrolls over the table revealed them to be blueprints of Redcliffe Castle, likely outdated from the wear on the paper.

Mustering his courage, Cullen planted a hand over the blueprints. “Or, we could still go after the Templars if the Herald doesn’t want to play the bait.”

Petrina rolled her eyes. “Worried for me, Commander?”

He pinned her with a stare. “You are our only means of closing these rifts. If you go in there, you will surely die, and Thedas…”

“Will be swallowed by demons,” she finished, “I’m aware.” She swatted his hand from the blueprints. “These are my people. I cannot leave them to _Tevinter_ , Commander.”

That finalized the matter. They were going to infiltrate Redcliffe Castle. Maker willing, this wouldn’t doom them all. Cullen’s breath caught at the irony of that last thought. He’d said similar words once, in a decrepit tower overlooking Lake Calenhad, to a younger Brynn Cousland. _“Maker turn his gaze upon you. Hopefully your compassion hasn’t doomed us all.”_

She’d just thrown a pitying look at him. _“Hopefully your hatred hasn’t doomed you.”_

* * *

 

“Did you find them informative?” Leliana asked Cullen following the war room meeting, the Chantry’s hush washing over them like a mourning shroud.

He winced at her bluntness, scanning their surroundings before answering. “It is… as I suspected.”

“Then you understand you made things worse earlier, I trust?”

 _Yes, I’m aware._ “If you have any suggestions, I’m open to them.”

“You could speak with her in a civil manner.”

A laugh barked out of Cullen without thought. “I’m sure _that_ will go well.”

“Just because something isn’t easy doesn’t mean it isn’t worth trying, Commander,” Leliana said.

Moonlight lanced through Chantry windows, streaking the room in long shadows. The wash of bright on stone floor reminded him of the tower in Ferelden, now a ruin at the shores of Lake Calenhad. If he drifted back far enough, he remembered Amell’s tinkling laughter wafting through crowded corridors, a flash of red-gold hair, that foxlike grin she always wore. That was before the fall left her scarred and desolate. It hadn’t been long after the Fifth Blight that she was conscripted into the Wardens, stationed up at Amaranthine. By that point, Cullen was midway through his transfer to Kirkwall.

 _“Mages are humans and elves, like the rest of us.”_ He thought Hawke naïve when they met, biased due to her Amell relations. It never occurred to him that she was an apostate. _She was right in the end, though. Mages_ are _humans and elves, just like the rest of us._

Petrina’s remarks came back to Cullen in vivid color. She called the mages her “people.” More than her temper, her fervent devotion to them, it was this moniker that Cullen remembered. Hawke had been an apostate, living outside the Circle system entirely. Amell never revealed her stance on the Circles, not to a Templar. She hadn’t been around long enough to join a fraternity, either. It was odd to hear a mage describe others as her “people.” Cullen learned about the fraternities by eavesdropping on apprentice conversations with enchanters. He’d heard Libertarians often used the term “people” as a rallying call to action. In Kirkwall, such calls were confined to hushed conversations after curfew in the salty darkness of the docks. Considering how he’d perceived mages until that fateful night at the Gallows, it was a good thing Cullen never had much incentive to hunt mages wandering around after dark. He left that to the Knight-Commander’s lower lackeys.

Not that it meant a thing to Petrina. To her, Cullen was little more than another Templar. He sighed. “I’ll speak with her tomorrow,” he said presently.

Leliana spared him a wan smile and nod on her trek out the door. Gathering some of his papers, he tucked them under his arm and doused the candles before heading into the night. Across the way, laughter snared his attention. A pair of Chantry mages tensed as he neared, faces turning stoic. He massaged the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t their fault, but damn if it wasn’t frustrating.

Sleep was difficult to come by on most nights, but that one proved insufferable. By the time he woke, the sun was streaking the skies with rosy light. He managed to stagger out of his tent in time to see the Herald and her companions clustering near the gate. Petrina stood a ways from them, shifting her weight between her feet. _Just say something. A word. A sentence. Something._ He inched toward her. “Herald,” he greeted as her eyes found his.

“Commander,” she intoned, “come to talk me out of this?”

“No, I simply… I wanted to urge you to be careful.”

She released a long exhale. “I can handle myself, shocking as that might seem to you.”

“I wasn’t doubting it,” he huffed, unable to tamp his brimming irritation.

Something in her features shifted at those words. “We’ll be back with the mages,” she assured him, adding, “ _I_ will be back with them. We’ll seal the Breach, and then…” Her words withered to a halt, impassivity slipping over her expression again. Cullen caught the meaning in the pause. He hadn’t thought much about what would happen once this ended, not beyond surviving to see it end. But, then, he hadn’t been born a mage.

“I doubt it will be quite the same as it was,” he reminded her, “we can’t exactly go back to the old system.”

“Shackling us like dogs,” she spat.

He cleared his throat as motion fluttered in his periphery. Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian were gathered near the gate with inquiry hewn into their faces. “You should probably be going.”

“Kind of you to give me permission,” Petrina said, though it lacked her usual venom and ire. She tugged at the hood of her cloak, and with a prim nod to Cullen hurried toward her companions. He watched her cloak’s teal fade around the road’s bend into the pines. Once she was gone, he rubbed a hand over his face. _She’s going to be the death of me._

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Cullen jumped at the voice to his right. The Iron Bull was focused on the bend in the road, his forehead creased in thought as he gazed after the Herald. “Such a little firecracker, that one, but she’s been hurt badly.”

“Life was never easy for Circle mages,” Cullen muttered.

“It was easier than being a saarebas, but your point is made.” The Bull stroked at the stubble lining his jaw. “So, Commander, what do you think of her?”

Cullen snorted, quelling the urge to roll his eyes or make a rude remark. “I think she despises most of us, and…” _Worse, her mistrust isn’t entirely misplaced._ Many in the Inquisition had recent, terrible memories of the mage rebellion. Even now, the slightest mention of magic reminded him of talons against his skin, the reek of blood in his nostrils, copper on his tongue, pleas for mercy that went unheard by his torturers. Pushing back a lump in his throat, he skirted a glance up toward the Qunari. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Everyone has an opinion on her, it seems,” the Bull continued, flicking a spot of ice from his bare grey shoulder, “but few people bother with getting to know her _before_ making those judgments. That’s the kind of thing that gets you killed when you’re Ben-Hassrath.”

“She doesn’t want to get to know me,” Cullen said, trying his best to curb his mounting frustration. He’d tried but learned soon enough that avoidance was better than risking a volatile argument. Every argument ended in simmering, fiery deadlock. He would urge caution, reminding everyone of the danger magic posed. _She_ , by contrast, would backlash with a volcanic retort about Templar abuse.

Their meeting in the Frostbacks overlooking Haven hadn’t been peaceful, either. _“We lost a lot of people getting you here. I hope it was worth it,”_ he’d scoffed. Those silver eyes of hers had turned to steel, and her ruby mouth had pulled into a dour line. For all her anger she threw at him in their worst arguments, it did little to bury the slight widening of her pupils, the tremor in her hands whenever he stepped too close. He’d seen that emotion a dozen times in Ferelden and Kirkwall over the years, in many a mage he had to interact with; it was dread.

“Patience is the key to winning any battle, Commander, even one of wills,” the Bull rumbled, a grin forming on his long face, “but I’m sure you know that.”

Cullen wanted to slap that smug grin from the Qunari’s face. He did know that. But this was more than just a battle on the field. Those were won with swords, shields, strategy. This was overcoming centuries of difference. _At least you_ chose _the Templars_ , his thoughts reminded him, _she had no choice in the Circle._ Hawke danced at the edge of his thoughts again, washed in the Gallows’ white sunshine as she perused the enchanters’ offerings at their stalls, one hand toying with the hem of her tunic. _“Mages are humans and elves, like the rest of us.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to ensure that I will graduate (paperwork is a pain), so that’s good. Now it’s bar application time, and that is a pain in the ass (though the things I thought would be trouble aren't trouble at all, really, and vice-versa). But, whatever. ‘S fine. I will do the thing, even if I don’t intend to litigate. This is one of the few remaining 3k chapters, I think. The rest should be 4-5k in length, stretching up to 6 or 7k at the most. I tried not to go over 8k in a chapter. I should add that I really like Leliana, so there’s a lot of positivity going around for her here because she needs more love and I stan. That said, yes, I am interning and I have three classes, therapy, the bar app, etc. I’ll try updating once or every other week, though. I know how frustrating it is for a fic to just disappear (this story is written, so that won’t happen, though).
> 
> Cullen is hard for me to write. Men in general are hard for me to write for... reasons. That said, I do like him, and he does remind me of myself if my sex was switched. Our personalities are similar... which is odd because I'm not religious at all (if that wasn't obvious). There are going to be deviations from canon, as far as dialogue goes and the end-game. Oh, and definitely as far as romance dialogue and scenes go. :3


	4. Red in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deciding to seek the mage rebellion's aid in sealing the Breach, Petrina heads out to Redcliffe with Varric, Cassandra, and Dorian in tow to try striking a deal with the magister now controlling the arling of Redcliffe and the mage rebellion. Things are always simpler on paper, though, and Petrina soon finds herself and Dorian winding through a twisted version of a dark future.

The Hinterlands were colder than usual the morning Petrina arrived at the Inquisition’s forward camp, a hushed pall resting over the scouts and soldiers stationed there. Chatty Scout Lace Harding was focused on something in the distant mountains. “We haven’t received word from Leliana’s agents yet,” she explained, tucking a lock of ginger hair behind her ear, peridot stare unmoving from the wilds. “A scout _did_ manage to find the rebel Templar encampment, though.”

“We could clear out the King’s Road for the refugees at the Crossroads,” Cassandra pointed out, “make it safer for them.” Her hard, scarred features softened some as they darted to Petrina.

Recalling the pungent sting of lyrium on the air, arrogance written into Chantry-loyal faces, Petrina readjusted her leather gauntlet. She had nothing against killing Templars. What she disliked was the reek of lyrium slicing at her lungs just before a white steel blade hit the earth, raw force knocking her back, purging any energy in her veins. One hit was all it took. Her attention flicked toward Dorian, standing away from them, light dancing off his neat, black coif. He didn’t speak much, likely dreading the confrontation that awaited them at Redcliffe.

 _He’s never fought a Southern Templar._ Honestly, Cassandra stood her own rather well against the Order. It stood to reason, as she’d been a Seeker. Once upon a time, the Seekers oversaw the Templars. Older mages in Ostwick spoke of a time when Templars were publicly shamed for hurting mages, losing rank and shield for misconduct. “Dorian,” Petrina called, “how do you feel about fighting Templars?”

She veiled her amusement when he barked out a dry laugh. “You sound like you have more experience than me,” he laughed.

“So that’s a no?” she guessed.

Sunlight struck the trees over their heads, dappling them in shade. “I’ll sit this one out, thank you.”

She inclined to her two remaining companions. Varric looked ready for anything, though his blonde half-ponytail was loose from hiking through the woods. There were a few pine needles in the hem of his leather duster. Cassandra was a stark contrast, not a lick of dishevelment on her. She flicked a short dash of black hair from her face and nodded. “Let’s head out, Herald.”

Petrina quelled a beckoning groan. _I’m_ not _the Herald of Andraste._ _Or anyone._ She spared a lingering glance at Scout Harding’s map. The Templars were holed up near the broken bridge spanning the river. Knowing how they could never resist flaunting their presence with that damn sword, she expected the camp to be an easy find. The problem would lie in ousting the Templars nesting there. They were practiced warriors, archers, rogues, and there would be hundreds of them in that camp, most drenched in lyrium thanks to Carta smugglers. All would wear that ridiculous flaming sword, alongside that pathetic façade of righteousness. Her gut turned.

 _There aren’t any Circles here._ Shouldering her staff, she gestured to Varric and Cassandra. Petrina kept her head low as they delved past the Inquisition camp. A river’s gurgle cut through the deciduous trees. She whitened her knuckles against her staff. Lyrium burned against her lungs long before she glimpsed those crimson banners flapping like fire through the forest brown and green. _“Don’t kill me!”_ he’d shrieked as she poured flame over him. She shook off the memory, nose scrunching, she hunched low. Varric and Cassandra charged toward the first steel-clad Templar. A click of Varric’s crossbow, Bianca, was followed soon by the thump of a body against the earth. Sweat ran down Petrina’s hand as more Templars spilled down from the hills, sunlight dancing against their blades. She kept her distance, raining fire down on them as they tore toward her companions.

Screams filled the air as they dropped to their knees, swatting and rolling in vain at the flame lapping at them. Petrina strode past the burning corpses. Beyond the initial onslaught lay a nest of white canvas tents and ramshackle wooden walls. Over her shoulder, Varric and Cassandra were locked in battle with several more Templars. Motion fluttered in Petrina’s periphery, stark bright in dappled shade. She swung right, staff slamming hard into her assailant’s side. He staggered, choking. She’d hit his chainmail, past the metal plate.

He was still too close. She raised her hand as his jaw slid open and doused his face in fire. His cry was agonizing as it hit her ears, joining the reek of charred skin and hair. Kicking past his body, she continued into the camp. Adrenaline drummed in her veins as she surveyed the camp. More Templars emerged from their tents. She silenced them as one of the archers’ mouths pursed into a familiar formation. _Mage._

In the stillness following the Templars’ deaths, Petrina let air fill her lungs. Lyrium scalded her tongue, her nostrils, sweet and pungent, its clear melody ringing in her ears like a jay’s call. Beneath that jay’s song was something darker, a mottled opera. Beneath the sweetness was a spiced scent that reminded her of the red spires at the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes. Her throat constricted. Mustering her willpower, she scoured the camp. Crimson bloomed past the little encampment, gleaming like blood in the early autumn.

“Shit,” Varric spat to her right. His cleanshaven face contorted with guilt. “Seeker! We have more of the red stuff up here!”

For once, Cassandra heeded his request. One shove of her shield and the crystal burst into a million ruby shards. Petrina shouldered her staff. The lyrium odor was overwhelming, scorching her veins. She turned from her companions, rubbing her fingers over her palms. Peridot hissed at her left palm, raw and angry. _The mark doesn’t like red lyrium._ “What was it doing here?” Cassandra prompted Varric.

“How should I know?” the rogue retorted. “I’m not an authority on the stuff!”

“This is because of your actions in Kirkwall.”

“You got one thing right,” Varric concurred, boots nudging dust into the air.

Petrina clapped her hands together. Their heads swiveled toward her. “Enough.”

“Yes, at least this part of the King’s Road is safe,” Cassandra mused, hazel glare softening somewhat. “There’s still the apostates to worry about, though.”

The mages that hadn’t retreated to Redcliffe, refusing the Grand Enchanter’s summons. Petrina exhaled, sharp and low. She might have known some of them, in another life. They wanted the same thing she and the others had secured: freedom. _Yes, at the expense of human lives._ She still remembered the tang of copper on the air that day, the reek of magic swelling against the corpses, revulsion running through her alongside the searing instinct to flee. “Search the camp,” Petrina heard herself say, “maybe there’s a clue where the apostates have gone.”

“You feeling alright, Firestarter?” Varric asked, slinging Bianca over his shoulder. Concern boiled in his grey gaze.

“If they’re using blood magic,” Petrina snarled, “they are no kin of mine.”

“You know,” Varric said, stroking his chin, “you can be _terrifying_ sometimes.”

Cassandra jutted her chin toward the hills. “The apostates have fled deeper into the wilds.” Tangled branches and shadows melded in a mesh of murk beyond the Templar camp. Wan slivers of sunlight slid through the darkness, not enough. _They’ll be waiting in the shadows_ , Petrina recalled with a tremor. She’d used similar tactics to survive. No one expected a _mage_ ambush, least of all Templars.

“Keep your eyes open,” Petrina recommended as they headed into the hills.

“Always do, Firestarter,” Varric quipped.

As one, they moved into the trees. A hush veiled them as they fell away from the Templar camp. The rich scent of wood and the scamper of animals filled the ensuing quiet. A slight hum of static clung to the air. _Magic._ Rounding a bend revealed an enormous white-blue spire streaking through the ground. Petrina pressed her palm to it, hissing at the cold that bit her. _Great, ice mages._

More ice spires lined the path ahead, alongside stark white runes hewn into the ground and trees. The magic in the air deepened, growing heady as one of her aunt’s perfumes. “Look at how the apostates have gone mad with power,” Cassandra snarled.

“The _apostates_ don’t have red lyrium in their woods,” Petrina replied. _No, but blood magic isn’t looking any better._ The ice spires and markings led to the gaping dark maw of a cavern hewn into the mountain face, set against what had once been a lake and was now a swath of ice. Lining the lake were mages of all stripes, though it was an ebony-skinned man in green that drew her attention. Someone shouted at her arrival. Cassandra tensed, steel whispering against leather as she reached for her blade. Petrina raised a hand, heart thundering in her ears. She stepped forward as the mage raised his staff. Hands high, open, and empty, she continued toward him.

“You’re from Ostwick,” the mage said, squinting at her as if she’d fallen from the sky itself.

“I am,” she agreed.

“You were the one Ser Wendell took a liking to.”

Bile pooled in the back of her mouth at that name. “Yes,” she bit out, “I was.”

“Surprised to see you down here, Lady Trevelyan.”

“The feeling is mutual,” she said. Several mages and warriors fanned out around this one, caution written into their thin features. She pushed down a dry lump. “Why aren’t you in Redcliffe?”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona has made a stupid mistake, in addition to the Templars bogging down the upper roads,” he answered, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“I know,” Petrina assured him, “that’s why we’re headed to Redcliffe.”

“Yes,” he said, sneering in Cassandra’s direction, “and you travel with a _Seeker_ no less.”

Cassandra bristled, “I’m no longer a Seeker.”

Petrina stepped forward. “Why are you harming people on the King’s Road?”

“Supplies,” the mage ground out, “or do you expect us to live on nothing? This Inquisition has been raiding our supply caches.”

Guilt and regret knifed her. _Yes, and I wonder who gave those cache locations to the Inquisition._ She extended a hand toward him. “If you are willing to lay your arms down and turn over what you’ve stolen to the refugees of the Crossroads, the Inquisition might be willing to parlay with you.”

The mage tilted his head, intrigue burrowing in his amber irises. “Intriguing offer, Lady Trevelyan. I wonder if your companion here would be so willing to abide its terms.”

Cassandra remained mute, mouth taut. “You can’t be considering this,” another voice chimed, one of the mages flanking him, a slight redheaded elf. “The Inquisition is everything we’re against!”

“Calm yourself,” the male mage snapped, adding to Petrina, “I’m not so foolish as to trust a _Chantry_ organization, regardless of leadership.”

She gaped at him, unable to mask her surprise. “Are you stupid?” she asked through her teeth. Her composure shattered. “You realize that you will die if you don’t yield?”

“Some things are more important than individual lives, even my own,” he said with a disapproving glare at her. “Once, you _knew_ that.”

Mouth running dry, she sought a suitable answer. She wanted to tell him about the simmering acid green mark on her hand that could seal tears in the Veil, harm demons, and that flared up when she neared red lyrium. She wanted to tell him about the Conclave, the diverse array of mages united alongside a throng of Templars for a common cause: peace. The words wouldn’t come. Obstinance burned in his chiseled face. “I thought so.” Ice blistered against his hand.

Petrina fade-stepped through him, materializing across the frozen lake. “I’m not the one attacking caravans,” she spat as her companions leapt to action.

“To survive!” he called back. “Not all of us have sisters leading armies of trained warriors to save us!”

Fire blistered between her fingers. She spun, sending a jolt of fire into his barrier. The frosted barrier broke with a crisp snap. Flame lapped at him. She ducked as an arrow whizzed past her ear. Varric somersaulted over her head, cackling as a crossbow bolt lodged itself in her attacker’s throat. She rotated on her heel, the back of her staff connecting with an incoming warrior’s hand. He swore as his blade flew from his hand, burying itself in the towering grasses studding the lake. She buried her staff blade in his heart, sweeping beneath another grasping set of arms.

Cassandra was there next, shield ramming into this other attacker’s face. The attacker, an untrained mercenary, dropped with a choked gasp on her blade. Something akin to pity almost melded in Petrina as they cleaved through the remaining attackers. That was before she noticed the black pattern drying in the stone over the cavern. Once, it had been glaring crimson, slathered on to form a seal. Disgust sealed in around her, a pale, freckled face dashing behind her eyelids. She brought her staff down against the barrier blocking the cavern entrance. It broke like glass beneath her fire’s touch.

More mages and mercenaries were buried inside the little cavern. They were skilled, Petrina gave them that much, but in the end, they were no match for her and her companions. The little cavern itself was ripe with the scent of unwashed bodies and books. Stacks of blankets and trunks of food dotted the far end of the cavern, alongside a vast array of unfinished essays and letters. Most of those were manifestos, calls to action. She skimmed the first one, flinching at the raw hatred leaching through the page. _Talk of Tevinter, a mage’s rightful place, precisely what I expected to find._ Massaging at her temples, she burned the papers without pause. Neither Cassandra nor Varric intervened.

“Herald,” Cassandra hummed into the silence, “are you alright?”

 _No._ Petrina let her shoulders fall. _“I don’t support blind slaughter!”_ she’d hollered, a thousand years ago now it seemed, against a din of blades and staffs, magic and purges. They hadn’t listened. Those under her authority were frightened, angry, and their backs were to the wall. They had no choice. Yet, in a sense they _did_ have a choice. They could have chosen _not_ to kill anything that moved, anyone not bearing their golden robes. It was pure and utter chaos when the Circle fell.

 _“If you aren’t with us, Petra, then you’re against us!”_ one of the others had roared, a short-haired brunette with a sullen face. _Linnea_. So many mages had that mentality.

_Are you so different?_

She wasn’t like the apostates in the Hinterlands. _I am at least willing to cooperate for this future, wherever it leads us._ Doubt nagged her, leering a single taunt in response: _And then what? Will you stay, be their pet “good mage”?_

“We should keep moving,” she said, head turning toward the sun crawling over the blue sky past their cavern. Word had to have come from Leliana’s agents by now, and she was tired of drowning in the reek of death and despair that filled the cavern.

Outside, a crisp wind whistled through the surrounding trees. Petrina hunched against her cloak, speaking little until they reached the Inquisition camp. Dorian met her eyes as they arrived. “Your agents are good, Herald, I’ll give you that,” he quipped, inclining his head toward the table Harding was using as a desk. Several new, hooded figures were hunched over the thing.

Petrina pushed aside her lingering unease as she stepped toward them. One of the figures, a mage from the staff on her back, stepped aside to extend a hand. “Agent Eianna Lavellan,” she greeted, eyes gleaming like turquoise stones beneath her hood. Short dark hair framed her soft brown skin, and vivid blue vines were stamped into her cheek bones. _Dalish._ Most agents didn’t use their real names, but no one remembered an elf, even a Dalish elf. _An apostate_ , Petrina realized with a jolt.

“Do we have a plan to get into Redcliffe Castle?” Petrina needled.

Lavellan beamed with a feral grin then. “Oh yes,” she said, voice lacking the typical Dalish brogue. _A Marcher?_ “Nightfall, for one.” She gestured to the papers on the table before her. Rigid dark lines crossed worn parchment, comprising the blueprints to the castle. Lavellan tapped one of the lower openings. “We’ll come up through here, past the main quarters, taking care of any Venatori we find. Know this, though, until we enter the throne room, you are alone and at the magister’s mercy. Try and be careful, Herald.”

“I’ve had practice,” Petrina rebuffed.

“Good. Leliana will watch our backs, but we can’t rely on her as the halls are crawling with Venatori,” Lavellan said, “the Commander has also promised any additional forces from the Crossroads that we need.”

Petrina tightened one of her gauntlets. “Is it just mages in there?”

“Mostly, plus some Tevinter Templars, not that they’re too hard to handle,” Lavellan hummed, rapping a finger against her lips. “You’ve been to Tevinter before, Herald.”

Irritation settled into Petrina’s veins at those words. Did _everyone_ in the Inquisition have a copy of her file? How had they even gotten it? _As if you wouldn’t do the same._ That thought quelled further objection. “Vyrantium,” she admitted, “briefly, to study ancient Tevinter theology.”

“You know what these mages are capable of, then.”

“The same thing we all are,” Petrina imagined.

Lavellan tensed, lithe fingers lacing together. “They won’t hesitate to gut you. They hunt my people down like animals, brand us for their lords and ladies. You stand against them. Remember, even if they know you or knew you, they will not hesitate to kill you.”

Recalling the mages in the wilds, Petrina nodded. “Let’s get going, then.”

“You’ll go in through the gates with Seeker Cassandra and Varric, Worship.”

Recoiling at that moniker, Petrina readjusted her staff on her back. It was time to head out. Daylight was waning above them. “Into the fire,” Varric mused at her side with a wan smile. “You sure about this, Firestarter?” he asked, doubt winding into his grey-hazel stare.

“We have no choice,” she reminded him, “the Breach must be sealed.”

“Right,” he gusted in a long exhale.

On that note, Cassandra approached the pair and they headed toward the road leading to Redcliffe, thronged by Leliana’s agents. Dorian remained eerily silent on the road. Petrina didn’t press him. The mages in the hills had left a sour taste in her mouth. Slaughtering her own people in cold blood was the height of ruthlessness, the epitome of all she claimed to stand against. _They didn’t listen to reason. We had no choice._ She hadn’t known any of the mages in that Hinterlands cave personally. Thinking back now, she’d passed that green-robed leader of theirs in the hallways, listened to a few of his presentations. He was a mage from Ostwick. A mage from Ostwick whom she’d murdered.

Thick black clouds settled into the skies above as they neared Redcliffe. Dorian dipped off with Lavellan and the other agents, offering a curt nod to Petrina as they stalked toward the ruined husk of a windmill overlooking the town. Left with Varric and Cassandra, Petrina rubbed her fingers together, ice stuttering in her veins. The town seemed different this time around, and the air was thick with magic. _“Nothing is ever easy, girl,”_ her mother sniffed in her ears. With a swallow, Petrina nodded and marched forward.

A long stone bridge yawned across a body of water, over which rose the castle like a leviathan from the sea. The Fereldan crest hung over the gate, twin gold dogs against a crimson banner. It stunned her that Alexius let that hang free. _An attempt at gaining trust?_

Petrina pushed ahead into the castle’s main hall. The dull blue glow of veil fire lit the interior, melding eerily with the amber flame in the hearth. Alexius was seated at the throne on the dais, lazily perched against velvet cushions. Fiona lingered nearby, as did Felix. He cast a wan grin in Petrina’s direction. “Herald, it is _so_ good to see you again,” Alexius purred as Petrina approached.

This was familiar, at least. She knew how to lie her way through any situation. Being highborn was good for that much. “I believe we were last discussing an alliance of your mages with the Inquisition.” Nausea pulsed her stomach at those words. _They’re people, not trinkets._

Fiona jumped in at those words, pupils wide and dark against her green gaze. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fates?”

Alexius chuckled, tugging at his paper-thin goatee as he spoke, “Fiona, my dear, you would not have entrusted your people to me if you didn’t trust me to look after their best interests.”

 _That’s the problem isn’t it? Everyone always says they’re looking after our best interests, but no one ever is._ Petrina mustered her courage against her instinctive recoil. His patronizing tone dredged up memories of her time in Vyrantium, enduring the pitying looks of the mages there, the whispered disdain, the subtle distrust and taunting. “If the Grand Enchanter wants to be part of these talks, I welcome her as a guest of the Inquisition.”

Fiona threw the younger woman a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Without looking at her, Alexius continued to Petrina, “We’ve established that you need the mages to seal the Breach. I wonder, my dear, what do you plan to give me in return?”

Motion flickered at the cusp of her vision. Masked, robed figures lined the aisle behind her, the path leading to the castle doors. _No getting out of here, not without going past them._ “What could a man like you want?” she asked. _Keep him talking._ “From what I’ve heard of you during my brief tenure in Vyrantium, you have all a man could ever want.”

Surprise lifted his greying brows. To his side, Felix tucked a grin against his fingers. “Power, my dear, is something that’s _always_ in short supply,” Alexius preened, feigning interest in his nails, “but I understand your organization is gathering more of it.”

“If you ally your mages with us,” she said, “you will have a share of our influence.”

“I wonder if your companions would agree,” he said, hazel eyes migrating past her.

Her response died in her throat. A choked gasp emanated somewhere over her shoulder, followed by the hushed slump of a corpse on hardwood flooring. Relief fluttered in her. She wasn’t alone anymore. “Then let’s talk about something _much_ more interesting.” She crossed her arms, ignoring the whisper of green against her skin.

“Go ahead,” Alexius returned with all the caution of a cornered beast.

“Time magic,” she said, ice lacing her words, “I want to know how you did it.”

Color drained from Alexius’s face. “What are you talking about?”

Felix intervened then. “She knows everything, Father.”

Head snapping toward his son, Alexius huffed through his nostrils. “Felix, what have you done?”

“You’ve turned into a madman since you joined these Venatori,” Felix bit out.

Alexius ignored his son, fixing a glacial look on Petrina. She would’ve recoiled in an earlier life, but magic she understood far better than the mechanics of a Templar purge. She stood her ground. “We’re taking the mages with us, regardless of whether you cooperate,” she said.

“You understand nothing,” Alexius snarled, rising from his seat, “the Elder One has power you and your pitiful Inquisition can’t possibly imagine.”

“Elder One?” _The Venatori are a cult_ , she reminded herself. Granted, she’d only heard of them _twice_ , and that was from her brief meeting with Felix and Dorian days earlier.

“What sort of power?” Felix prompted, catching his father’s shoulder.

“The kind of power that will enable mages to rule again!” Alexius boomed.

Disdain swept over Petrina. Fiona’s jaw slid open. “You can’t involve my people in this!” she cried, her rebellious fire streaking into her tone again.

“Father, do you know what you sound like?” Felix asked.

Dorian stepped from the shadows of an adjacent column then, eerily serious. “He sounds exactly like the villainous cliché everyone expects us to be.”

Petrina folded her arms. Unease wafted through her. “You don’t understand,” Alexius persisted, rounding on his son, “the Elder One has power, Felix, he can save you.”

“Save me?” Felix balked. Recalling his near-faint in the tavern, Petrina twisted her fingernails against her tunic sleeves. Ollie’s sweat-slicked face darted through her thoughts again.

“From the Blight,” Alexius persisted, “there _is_ a way, if I get rid of the mistake at the Temple.”

 _That_ caught her attention. She inched forward. “If I’m a mistake, what was the Breach supposed to accomplish?”

“The Elder One meant it as our genesis,” the older mage sighed, awe hewn into his features.

Felix gaped at his father. “Stop this,” he hastened, “let the Southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home.”

Dorian strode closer to Petrina. Scarlet crept into Alexius’s neck, purpling his face. “No,” he ground out, almost feral. Blue glistened against his palm, alongside the silver sheen of metal. “There _is_ a way. _You_ should never have existed.” His breaths were short and fast. _Maker preserve me._

“Herald,” Cassandra warned.

Dorian shouted something, and then Petrina fell hard to the floor beneath his weight, teal fluttering around them. When she blinked, it was to dampness at her back, and a grunt of Tevene over her shoulder. “Where’d they come from?” She snatched her staff as she crawled to her feet. Two hulking armored men loomed over her and Dorian, blades out. She doused them in fire without pause. Dorian, preoccupied with the filth lining his cream silk robes, gave an approving smirk as their corpses fell to the ankle-high water that adorned the room.

With the potential attackers gone, Petrina surveyed their surroundings. Scarlet meshed with cold verdant, the same lifeless peridot that branded her left hand. A set of rusted iron bars bedecked the far wall. The hinges dangling off one of the bars gave away the structure as a prison cell, though now it was filled with barrels and crates. “I’d wager he sent us through time,” Dorian said at her side.

“Yes,” she agreed, doing her best not to let her attention linger on the rust. “But I’d like to know whether we went forward in time or back and how far…”

“As would I,” he assured her. “We’d best find out, then we can start to discern how to get back, if we can.”

She snatched his wrist as he turned aside. “You _have_ a plan to get us back, I hope.”

“I have some thoughts on that,” he said, throwing her a wink as he pried her fingers from his wrist, “they’re lovely thoughts, like little jewels.”

 _That you can’t share with me?_ She picked through the corpses’ pockets, fishing out a mottled key. The door to their little room popped open with a groan of rusted hinges. Past that room, all was still and hushed. Her stomach twisted. It was _far_ too quiet. _They were speaking Tevene._ Tevinter had occupied the South in ancient times, but their armor wasn’t of ancient make. Sure, they wore pointed helms like the ancients did, but the work was smoother. _We went forward in time._

 _“You must stop making such rash decisions based on your hunches,”_ her mentor once commanded after a botched set of frost spells. Petrina remembered too well the anger in Lydia’s face that morning, the crease in those gold brows, the plunge of that pink mouth. _And now she’s dead, killed by the very people you trusted, the ones she urged you_ not _to trust._ Jaw clenching, Petrina forced her feet forward. Dorian stopped her with a murmur as they neared a set of stairs climbing upward. She paused, an objection dying the moment it formed. Against the magic sizzling on the air, she heard the eerie, twisted song of red lyrium. The spiced scent wafted through the air, soft as those candles Elise took burned to stave off her lyrium cravings.

 _We’re in the future_ , Petrina concurred. Dorian’s grey stare found hers in the darkness. “I’d wager we now know _when_ in time we are, though _how far_ remains unanswered,” he said.

“Hopefully Fiona and the others are still alive,” Petrina answered. _I also hope that things aren’t worse for mages here because of whatever Alexius has done._

“You need more positivity. Aren’t you supposed to be a beacon of hope and inspiration?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” she quipped, striding ahead.

More Venatori soldiers littered the halls and stairwells ahead. Most of the rooms she and Dorian traversed were as ruined as that which they tumbled into, often studded in enormous red lyrium crystals. Her head pounded at her efforts to stave off the stuff’s incessant singing. It seemed an eternity before they rounded a hall full of cells in working condition, doors intact, devoid of red lyrium crystals. The cell at the end simmered with scarlet, and Petrina choked down a shriek as they happened upon it. Waist-deep in red lyrium, head low, dark hair reaching past her shoulders now, was Grand Enchanter Fiona. “By the Maker,” Petrina swore, rushing to the cell bars, “Grand Enchanter?”

“Senior Enchanter Trevelyan,” Fiona rasped, dull eyes rising to meet Petrina’s, “I thought you died. I saw you… he… you disappeared.”

“Not dead yet,” she said, wishing she had it in herself to laugh. “What is the date?”

“Nine-forty-two, dragon,” Fiona hummed, lashes falling shut. _A year. It’s been an entire year._

“What happened here?” Petrina asked next, trying to keep her tone level. _Is that red lyrium growing from your body?_

“The Elder One… is… more powerful than the Maker. Your spymaster is here… as is… the commander… of… your armies… find them.”

“Where’s Alexius?”

“In his throne room. You’ll need help. Elder One. Supports him.”

Dorian was solemn when Petrina’s gaze flicked toward him. “Alexius can’t have wanted this,” he muttered as they continued through the labyrinth that comprised the castle’s prison. It was an echo of something she’d said in Ostwick.

 _“You can’t have wanted this, Linnea!”_ she’d cried, years ago now, awash in the stink of blood and death.

Linnea just bellowed with laughter. She escaped in the ensuing chaos and bloodshed, a vain effort at avoiding the Templars that crashed in around them.

They weren’t friends, never had been, but Petrina had _known_ the younger mage. _Linnea wanted every ounce of that massacre._ Certainty hardened in her. _Even at the cost of her fellow mages._ There was a reason Serrion never approved Linnea for a Harrowing ritual.

“We never know what our colleagues want until it’s too late,” Petrina finished. It was cold, practical. Dorian wasn’t after sympathy, and he was too lost in thought to respond.

The mages trailed deeper into the castle, coming upon another set of cells, mercifully devoid of red lyrium. Petrina drank in the stale, damp air as she surveyed the darkness for signs of life. A yelp almost escaped her as a pair of scarlet eyes found hers in the darkness, round with disbelief. Her throat tightened as he stepped toward the wan light. His blonde curls were tighter without styling, and he had a bit of a beard rimming his jaw now, but she knew that scarred mouth and chiseled face anywhere. “Commander?” she asked.

“Impossible,” he rasped, burying his hands in his hair, “they said you didn’t come back. I tried to find you. We never did. They were killed. I stayed here. I…”

She started at those words. “Killed?”

He shook his head. “They fought for you, but it didn’t matter…”

 _Cassandra and Varric_ , she supposed. _Alongside all our soldiers._ “Why did you come here?” she asked, thrusting her stolen key into the lock. To her relief, the tumblers clicked in place. _Lucky me, must have murdered a guard captain or something._

“You were our key to these rifts,” Cullen said. An automatic response, cold and practical as anticipated.

She snorted. “I’m surprised you went to the effort for a _mage_ , and one you dislike at that, Ser _Templar_.”

He pulled a stern frown at that moniker. Guilt daggered her. _What happened?_ “I’m not a Templar, Herald, for the last time.” He pinned a scarlet-shaded glare on her. “How did you survive?”

“Alexius sent us forward in time,” Dorian explained, “we’re trying to get back.”

“That won’t be easy.”

Petrina nodded. “We spoke with Fiona, and she mentioned something about an Elder One…”

Cullen stepped from his cell, expression ashen. “While you were gone, the Elder One assassinated Empress Celene and his demon army invaded the South. Our soldiers fought as long as they could, but, well…”

 _They all perished._ Shame pitted her. Whatever his faults, he cared for those under his command. She often caught him throwing fond smiles on his soldiers, alongside the firm lectures he so adored. “I’m sorry,” she managed. It was like those she’d led in Ostwick. So many had dropped like flies. _But to lose all of them… I can’t imagine._

 “The Iron Bull thought you could reach the remaining mages, bring them against the Venatori, but then,” Cullen began, pausing to draw a shaking inhalation, “then a group of Templars attacked Haven, though they were more beast than human.”

A weight pressed at her tongue, alongside scalding disbelief. She’d met Ser Barris in Val Royeaux, albeit briefly. The man had seemed considerate, kind, a rare thing for a Templar. _Not that I’d trust the rest of his ilk._ Templars had attacked civilians during the war, but the entirety of the remaining Order raiding Haven was difficult to fathom. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Cullen spat, “and they were all coated in red lyrium.”

 _Like Fiona._ “How?” she asked. “We saw Fiona covered in the stuff.”

“It’s a disease or parasite,” he said, fury biting at his words, “the longer you’re near it, eventually it starts growing on you, and then they mine your corpse for more.”

 _I knew it was wrong._ Petrina studied the Inquisition’s former commander. He seemed strong enough to wield the blade he still wore at his hip. They even left him with his shield. Perhaps that was a humiliation method of these Venatori, or, more likely, a demon had brought him in, and no one questioned it. “We’re going after Alexius. If I can get back to our own time, I might be able to stop this,” she said.

“The Elder One is stronger than even the Maker,” Cullen intoned, “no mage can match him, not even you.”

Dorian clicked his tongue. “Then, is he a magister?”

“Pray you never find out,” Cullen urged the mage, head swaying, “those who see the Elder One never live to tell of it, save Alexius.”

Petrina cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, we _must_ get back,” she said, “and stop this from happening.”

Scowling, Cullen relented with a nod. “I can at least get revenge for the Inquisition.” He inclined his head toward the hallway, “You’ll need a guide anyway, as half the place is destroyed.”

“I always thought cults had questionable decorating,” Dorian sighed.

Cullen threw a withering look on the mage. To Petrina, he said, “Leliana was taken away, not long after I arrived, which was about a month or so ago.”

“She can’t be far,” Petrina mused. She gestured for the men to follow her, summoning a small orb of white light to illuminate the way.

Cullen was silent as they delved further up into the castle. She slanted a look over at him on occasion and swore his attention flicked back to the path ahead. He was watching her, perhaps thinking she wasn’t real. “Your family asked after you,” he said at last as they emerged from the dungeons, “your brother Rowan almost murdered me on his way in.”

Her heart twisted. “Rowan came for me?”

“He was convinced we’d killed you, a defiant mage. It took hours to explain to him what happened. He helped us.” Emotion broiled in his next glance. “I told him not to come with us, but he insisted.”

She set her teeth against the impending swell of grief in her veins. “He always was… protective of me.” Among the many memories of their time together was that summer at Great-Aunt Lucille’s estate, playing near the huge lake out past the gardens. They’d dared each other to go further past the shallows. Petrina remembered ground falling out from under her, water filling her lungs, curses flung back and forth between the rest of her siblings, tossing the blame. Rowan had stayed there that whole time, cried when her eyes fluttered open at last, held her like it was the last time he’d ever see her again.

 _He went looking for me. He’s dead. Because of me._ Dorian pressed a hand to her shoulder, squeezing. “Now, now, let’s not write off the Rowan in _our_ time just yet.”

 _Assuming we_ can _get back._ Petrina felt herself nod, even as regret plagued her. Cullen touched a finger to his lips, gesturing toward one of the doors ahead. He unsheathed his blade and produced his shield. The mages unfurled their staffs. Wood splintered as Cullen shoved a boot against the door, busting the fragile lock. The door fell open with a clang. Venatori spilled from the room, shouting Tevene profanities.

Petrina cleaved through them, her veins simmering with the warmth of her fire. Dorian was all lightning, and she couldn’t help a flash of envy at the way he wove current through his fingers. Cullen remained stalwart in front of them, cutting past soldiers with ease. It was as if he’d never been imprisoned.

Footsteps thudded over her shoulder, light and almost silent. She swung aside, dodging a dagger thrust. Her staff blade found its way into her attacker’s heart. She tore her staff free, fade-stepping past the next rogue who had somersaulted around to her side. When she turned back, Cullen had shoved his shield into the rogue’s face, knocking the lithe woman on her back. Astonishment rippled through Petrina as Cullen dove his blade through the rogue’s chest. He paused for a breath, flicking sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. “That should be all of them,” he said, swiping the gore from his weapon.

Petrina followed suit, heading past the corpses to a room doused in the reek of copper. Hanging from the manacled chains mounted in the ceiling, her face gaunt and withered with Blight, was Leliana. Awe split her cautious blue eyes as Petrina entered, followed soon by recognition. “You’re alive,” the spymaster choked out, almost relieved.

“It’s a long story,” Petrina said, snatching the key Dorian passed her. She unlocked Leliana’s manacles. The rogue slipped down on her feet, catlike. She strode toward the chest in the far corner of the room, retrieving her white-wood bow and a quiver of arrows.

“Alexius is in the throne room. We’ll need to kill his overseers in the adjacent rooms to open the door, though. Seems today is a big day.” A feral grin lit Leliana’s features as she spun toward the little party. “The Elder One’s patience has finally run out.”

Padding back into the hallway, Petrina drew a sharp intake of breath. Grunts emanated from the next room, alongside the distinctive wails she knew too well from her time in the rebellion. Her hand fastened around a door handle. She shoved the door open. Writhing on the floor ahead, hands in his chestnut hair, hazel eyes wide and panicked, was a face she knew only from portraits. Lord Connor Guerrin. Nephew to the current arl of Redcliffe. He bit out something akin to a laugh as he spotted her. “Of course,” he growled, voice dipping below his range, “a hypocrite.” He twitched backwards, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Fire snapped unbidden from her palm.

 _“I love you, furious as you make me sometimes,”_ Ollie purred in her ears. Shrieks filled the room as Connor, or the demon possessing him, both, turned to ash. Petrina pushed a hand through her hair, loathing how it shook.

“Poor man,” Dorian muttered at her side, “he held off that demon as long as he could.”

“It’s not enough,” she managed, cheeks hot as Cullen stepped to her other side, “it never is.” She couldn’t bring herself to face _him_. The last thing she needed was a Templar judging her. _Ex-_ Templar. _What’s the difference?_

“No,” Dorian agreed, frowning back at her. “Are you alright?”

 _Are you?_ “We need to hurry up,” she concluded, scouring the little room they’d found Connor in. It was almost like a bedroom, but far too small. Even in the Circle, they’d had breathing room. This was a crack in the wall. _I thought Alexius said his people would help the mages._ Indignance rose in her. She learned long ago not to trust a Tevinter at his or her word. _What were you thinking, Fiona?_

More Venatori awaited in the halls beyond the room Connor died in. Petrina kept ahead as Dorian remained intent on pestering Leliana about Felix’s fate. The rogue was just as keen on avoiding his questions. Petrina would’ve found it pitiful in another life, but for now she was simmering with anger. Each turn in a hall revealed worse things, and at least the Venatori could be killed. Blood seals on the floors and walls, decaying sacrifices, the crackle of energy on the air, those things couldn’t be eradicated with a flick of her fire or staff blade.

“We’re close to the courtyard now,” Cullen hummed as they rounded a bend in the corridor. “Past that are the inner chambers of the magister’s council.”

Petrina raised an eyebrow. The unease in his voice dredged up doubt in her. “I get the feeling it won’t be so simple.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” he intoned.

A wide chamber yawned ahead of them, a stairwell sitting near the back, behind an enormous gate. Petrina hefted the thing open with Dorian’s help. Worn pulleys screeched with effort, but the gate rose. Cold air tumbled down toward them from the stairs, frigid and alpine. Following that draft up into the courtyard, Petrina’s breath lodged in her lungs as she drank in the surroundings. White sunlight streaked through a green sky. Magic purred on the air, running static-laden fingers through her hair. “The Breach,” she rasped, “it’s…”

“Everywhere,” Dorian finished, a pallor washing over his bronze features.

Cullen charged past the mages. “The Venatori opened it.”

“Giving the Elder One an infinite source of demons,” Leliana said.

Mouth running dry, Petrina pushed after Cullen. They had to end this. One way or the other. _I must get back._ She wasn’t a hero, not like Queen Brynn or even Hawke, but Petrina had her mother’s stubbornness. If nothing else, she could mitigate future losses, throw a wrench in the wheel. “He can’t have wanted this,” Dorian growled, fists white-knuckled at his sides. “The Alexius I knew would never…”

Petrina tucked a retort in the back of her throat. “He was willing to buy and sell my people like trinkets,” she reminded him, “I’d say this isn’t too far of a logical leap.”

“Slavery is everywhere in Tevinter,” Dorian agreed with a flinch, “back home, no one questions it. I suppose… I never gave it much thought either.”

“No one in Tevinter does,” she snarled, “that’s the problem. You’re the reason no one in the South trusts us.” No guest mage in Vyrantium saw the blood sacrifices or slavery up close, but she’d heard the screams, seen the way favor promptly rose and fell for certain mages. From eavesdropping on Templars in Ostwick, she knew their inner paranoias and worst nightmares. All stemmed from Tevinter.

“That’s rather unfair, considering you partook in the rebellion, as I recall things,” Dorian backlashed.

She spun on her heel, jabbing a finger at him. “To protect my people from Templar abuse, not to shield blood mages and abominations from accountability!” she thundered.

“As if that makes a difference to Tevinter,” Dorian replied.

She turned from him, fury lashing her. It wasn’t the same thing, not that a man from Tevinter would ever understand that. Warmth branded her cheeks as Cullen filled the space beside her. _I don’t want your sympathy._ By some miracle, he remained quiet as they crossed the courtyard. More rifts tore open in the Veil around them, demons pouring forth like rain from a cloud. Shades and terror demons with monstrous talons. They fell to magic, arrows, and Cullen’s swordsmanship. Petrina sealed any rifts in their path, ignoring the agony that spiraled up her arm.

Past the courtyard, Redcliffe Castle was a crumbling ruin. The ceilings were riddled with gaps that revealed the green heavens beyond. From the floors and walls sprouted red lyrium. Demons and Venatori littered the halls, reminding Petrina of the bandits that lurked in the Hinterlands, preying on the Mage-Templar War’s refugees. In one of the Venatori mage’s pockets, she found a scarlet shard of lyrium. While she was expecting it to hum with that eerie song and scent, it remained quiet in her palm. She wrapped the thing in a handkerchief to be safe. There were more shards on other Venatori mages, five in total.

“Part of a key to open the throne room door,” Cullen said to Petrina, “only Alexius’s most trusted advisers were gifted with them.”

“And you need all five to open the door,” Leliana elaborated.

“That’s a tad paranoid,” Petrina conceded.

“The magister has good reason for it,” Cullen said, a shadow veiling half his face, “the Elder One doesn’t take lightly to those who break their vows to him.”

“What sort of vows?”

“I have no idea.”

Leliana rolled her shoulders, disdain writing itself into her mottled features. “His son Felix was allowed to live through Blight sickness, somehow.”

“That’s not possible,” Petrina objected. _No mage has that sort of power._

“I thought the same thing, once.” A wry grin pulled at Leliana’s skeletal face. “Back before the world fell apart.”

Cullen opened one of the nearby doors, revealing an angled stairway cutting into the darkness. They all went silent as they delved down the steps, landing in a hall bedecked with more demons and Venatori. This fight was shorter than the others. Past the fallen foes was a stone door bedecked with a set of intricate vines, each bearing leaf-shaped cutouts. Petrina popped the red lyrium shards into each of the cutouts. Green whispered against red and the door yawned open with a groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been busy, and I'm not one of the "I study for 7 hours a day" people you meet in law school. It's just stuff... /shrugs. Mostly me not wanting to do stuff, but also me trying to figure things out. I get my bar pic and finger prints taken tomorrow (have to remember that xD). If you're a first-year, let me tell you as a third-year that while it does get easier in that you know what you're doing and how to do it, it is no less stressful. That's basically law, I've learned: constantly having things to do.
> 
> So, sorry this took so long. I also went through and rewrote this entire section midway through my edits on Chapter 2. This and Chapter 5, I think, are both new inserts because I hated how much I skimped out on the original versions. I binged on Sabrina over the break, and this was heavily influenced by that (although parts of that show make me wonder wtf the writers are thinking... just because parts of it really do not get how witchcraft operates as a female-centric religion at all, but well... that's an essay for another day). I also really liked the idea of another advisor showing up at Redcliffe, especially since Cullen is the commander of the Inquisition's forces. Rowan is Petra's twin. He is going to come in later, and if I do a "this is my DA4" fic, he'll feature prominently in that. I just couldn't do 100k more words on him and his issues. xD I see House Trevelyan as generally just a bunch of kids with issues, kind of like my family! :D


	5. Out of the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set on the course to defeat Alexius before the world falls to pieces, Petrina and Dorian join Cullen and Leliana in one final fray against the magister in his red-stained future to return to the present and set things right.

Redcliffe Castle’s main hall was untouched by the red lyrium that blighted the rest of the castle. Tall white columns fringed the path to the dais where Alexius stood, his back toward the doors. Eerie pale flames danced from the braziers adorning the walls. _Veil fire_ , Petrina recalled from Solas’s words to her during a few brief explorations of elven ruins in the Hinterlands. The flames were a foreign streak of brightness against the verdant-tinted shadows swathing the room.

She braced herself as she neared the dais. Alexius rotated with agonizing slowness, mouth curling upward in dry amusement as that cold stare pinned her. “So,” he said, “you’ve found me at last.” Bitter laughter rolled from him. “The irony that it should be _now_.” She planted her hands behind her, willing them to stop shaking. This man was the reason Rowan had died. The reason Cassandra, Varric, the entire Inquisition, had perished. Nothing but disdain settled in her now as she regarded him.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asked. “Torturing people, murdering them, destroying the world?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexius sneered, rounding on her, eyes wild and bloodshot, “the Elder One comes for you, for me, for all of us. It’s ending.”

She set her jaw at the finality in his words. “You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you get away with all this.” _I will get back. Somehow._ She snuck a look to Dorian, but he was focused on the man that had once been his mentor. Might have been sympathy in another life, were it not for the intensity of that stare. Petrina followed his focus, and courage bloomed in her. There, against Alexius’s maroon robes, was a fine silver chain, from which hung a cubic amulet. _The one he used to send me forward in time._

“It’s pointless, not that I’d expect you to understand.”

Dorian inched forward. “Alexius, please, we can stop this, if you just give us that amulet.”

Alexius’s head swayed. “It’s impossible.”

Motion fluttered over his shoulder. Leliana popped up from the shadows, a blade pressed to what had once been a man’s throat. The thing itself was now listless and grey, an emaciated being swathed in yellow silk. “Give us the world back,” she commanded.

A gasp tore from Alexius. “Felix,” he breathed.

Dorian balked at that, all traces of empathy waning as he regarded the remnant of his friend. “ _That’s_ Felix? Maker’s breath, Alexius, what have you done?”

“I had to, Dorian,” Alexius whispered, “to save him. I, please, you will get whatever you want, just…”

“Leliana,” Petrina cautioned. It was a futile request, but she had to try. “Let him go. He’s an innocent…”

“No one is innocent,” Leliana retorted, dragging her blade over Felix’s throat. Dark blood spilled from the wound. He died with a choked gasp, slumping to the ground.

Alexius unleashed a feral cry. “NO!”

Raw force sent Petrina backwards. She slammed hard into a stone column, stars dancing behind her eyes. Someone helped her to her feet. Angry green spat at her left hand. She steadied herself before looking up into Cullen’s scarlet-gold eyes. “Take care of the magister. I’ll hold off the demons as long as I can,” he urged her, inclining toward Alexius.

A rift opened over them, and out burst the long, lithe forms of twin terror demons. Petrina scrambled away from them, her grip ironclad as it sealed around her staff. Cloaking herself in a warm barrier, she dove past the mess of demons. How Alexius managed to open such rifts was beyond her understanding. _The Elder One, maybe._ He cackled as she approached. “Tell me again how you’re going to _seal the Breach_!” Blue energy blistered between his hands. _Veil fire?_ She feinted right, grateful that she’d learned how to dance during her visits home. He couldn’t track her. Staff raised high, she brought it down against his side, threading her flame into the blow. He staggered, howling as he struggled to douse the blaze simmering against his pristine, but flammable robe.

She fade-stepped as he reached for her. Lightning whipped over her shoulder. Ducking low, she sent forth a flame rune. That was when he became a maroon blur. She darted left as he materialized behind her, staff colliding with his legs. His balance was stronger than her blow. He took advantage of her momentary frustration to slam her into the wall with a jolt of raw force. Stars danced behind her eyes. Flame poured from her hands as he approached her, blinking off his barrier. _Move._ A twist of her heel, and she fade-stepped aside, rounding in time to watch him flick a dagger against decaying stone. “You cannot defeat me!” he bellowed at her.

_“We could be gods, Petra,”_ one of her apprentices breathed from her memories of Ostwick, face slathered in a malevolent grin, _“they wouldn’t be able to hurt us then.”_ Crimson spilled from his palm, dissolving into a torrent of frost and snow. She thrust that memory aside, ducking as Alexius swung for her again. This time, his footing was uneven. That was all the opening she needed to shove her staff blade into his back. He slumped against her blade, coughing up scarlet. She wrenched her weapon back, air pouring from her lungs. Sweat beaded her brow. Her knees buckled, sending her to the floor. With a sigh, she tore the amulet from his neck.

_“Anger isn’t enough to end a war, Petra,”_ Ollie told her before the conflict began, awash in the rosy light of morning filtering through the Circle castle’s arched windows. _Alexius did all of this for his son._ She rubbed her fist against her forehead. _Would I be any different, if it was my family in danger? If I could bring back Ollie?_

_“Understanding a motivation isn’t the same as endorsing that motivation,”_ her mother once said in the wake of a summer skirmish, the soldiers ecstatic about their victory. Resolve hardened her as the cold prick of Alexius’s amulet resonated against her hand. _You can stop it._

“Here’s the amulet,” she called, tossing it to Dorian.

Dorian blinked as he caught the amulet. “I think this is the same one we used in Minrathous, so that’s a relief,” he said. She stood, shouldering her staff. “Give me an hour, and I’ll have us back to our time. I might also need you to lend me your energy…”

“An _hour_!?” Cullen interrupted, shuffling toward the mages with Templar prickliness hewed into his expression. He threw a look toward the castle’s main doors. “That’s impossible!”

“Yes, you must go now,” Leliana agreed, her eyes widening as a tremor rattled the castle. An animalistic screech filled the quiet after the jostle of stone and wood. “The Elder One.”

Petrina sucked in her cheeks. “Dorian?”

“We need time,” Dorian said, gaze darting toward the castle doors.

Leliana hurried toward the doors, dropping the massive bars in place over them. “You have until those bars break and we die,” she said, nocking an arrow as she hurried down the dais.

Cullen threw Petrina an attempted smile. “Make this time count,” he urged her.

_I will._ Alongside that thought was a scalding jolt of disbelief. A former Templar was protecting her. _Why?_ Yes, she was their only means of closing rifts, sealing the Breach, but this seemed an awful sacrifice to make for someone he could barely tolerate. She stepped back to the dais with Dorian as Cullen joined Leliana near the doors. It wasn’t a complex spell, Dorian explained as he recited the incantation over the amulet. Petrina lent him some of her energy, voice melding with his. Power pulsed from the amulet. Turquoise hummed against iron. Wood split across the way. The castle doors cracked open beneath the weight of a pride demon’s massive arm.

Leliana lurched forward, a smudge of lavender and white, her arrows a blur of motion as they landed in demon hearts and throats. Cullen was at her side. Petrina swallowed hard, focusing on the amulet. It seemed an eternity before the cube began to hover and hum with power. A shriek filled her ears. The pride demon had hefted Leliana high, hurling her like a sack through the air. Petrina’s stomach dropped. Cullen unleashed a feral howl, charging toward the thing. His blade made stark cuts in the demon’s thick hide, though it only laughed. She gritted her teeth as the thing’s arm caught Cullen, sending him down. He scrambled to his feet, shield running into the beast’s leg. It wasn’t enough. The demon yowled but wasn’t fazed. It wrapped a hand around Cullen’s abdomen, hefting the warrior upward.

_Gore spattered the hallway_ , Petrina recalled, _the entire floor trembling as the abomination carved a path through mage and Templar alike. She crouched in one of the rooms adjacent to the library, shushing the quivering apprentices around her._ “You move,” Dorian breathed across from her, “and we die, understand? All of us.”

A scream struck the air. In her periphery, she glimpsed Leliana collapsing against a terror demon’s talon. Petrina snapped her focus around, eyes locking with Cullen’s certain stare. He lingered in the pride demon’s hand, acceptance hewn into his expression as steel flailed uselessly at Fade-hardened skin. _Why?_ He was dying for her. He was dying for a mage. A mage who had done nothing but loathe him from the moment she woke to find the Breach dousing the world in demons. It made no sense. He should’ve killed her on sight. Her eyelids fluttered as time stuttered around her and Dorian. The last thing she witnessed of the Elder One’s red-stained future was Cullen’s last, slick breath before he went limp in the demon’s massive hand.

Grim green and red withered away to golden afternoon light as the last vestiges of a false future yielded to the present. When Petrina turned, she found herself facing Alexius, now slumped in stunned disbelief before his stolen throne, a relieved Felix at his father’s side. “Herald!” Cassandra gasped.

“That’s our Firestarter,” Varric preened, though his smirk didn’t reach his eyes.

Petrina strode toward Alexius. “You will surrender and release the mages,” she said, “and then you will return to Tevinter. Perhaps they’ll show you mercy there, although even a headsman is more than you deserve.”

Alexius slumped back into his stolen throne. “You win,” he groused, “there’s no point in extending this charade.” Genuine emotion broke his composure as his attention flicked toward his son. “Felix.”

“It’s going to be alright, Father,” Felix hummed, clasping his father’s hands.

Alexius shook his head. “You’ll die.”

With eerie, yet resolved certainty, Felix answered, “Everyone dies.”

From the shadows, Leliana emerged with the remainder of her agents. She jutted her chin toward Alexius. Lavellan was on the Tevinter mage first, relieving him of his staff. The others shackled Alexius, relieving him of his lyrium potions and smashing that dangerous amulet of his. Dorian relinquished their replica from the future. He threw a grin to Petrina. “Glad that’s over.”

She deigned against mentioning their earlier argument. Any response she could’ve created died in her throat to the telltale slam of the castle doors. “Or _not_ ,” Dorian mumbled. In strode several men and women swathed in gold-coated steel plate. In their wake came a man arrayed in rich brown leather and furs, exasperation written into his gold-hazel eyes. From the crescents rimming his eyes, Petrina wagered he hadn’t slept well in _years._ His deep blonde hair was unkempt, but the crown on his head gave him away. King Alistair. Queen Brynn’s husband. The man who helped her defeat the Fifth Blight.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Alistair called.

“King Alistair,” Fiona muttered, cheeks a vivid pink as she stepped toward him.

“When I gave you and your people sanctuary, it was at the behest of my wife and the belief that mercy is better than blind prejudice and slaughter,” Alistair said, “I didn’t intend for you to oust my uncle and give Redcliffe to Tevinter.”

“We never intended…”

“In light of your actions, your intentions no longer matter. One way or another, you and your people are leaving Ferelden.”

Fiona gaped at the king. “But… we… I have hundreds who need protection, where will we go?”

Petrina swept in, her heart a roar in her ears. “The Inquisition might be willing to take in the mages.”

Fiona slanted a cautious look at the younger mage. “And what are the terms of this agreement?”

Cassandra coughed. “Herald, Lady Trevelyan, I know you are a mage, and I know you empathize with them, but consider how they have acted. These mages don’t deserve coddling.”

Varric shook his head. “I’ve known a lot of mages. They can be loyal friends if you let them. I mean, friends who make bad decisions, but loyal.”

Petrina pulled her shoulders back. _Modest in temper, bold in deed._ “You inspired action at Ostwick. I did not and do not agree with the bloodshed that resulted from that inspiration, but we can’t go back now. All we can do is go forward. You’re welcome as our allies.”

A pall dropped over Cassandra. “We will discuss this.”

“There is _nothing_ to discuss,” Petrina snapped, rounding on the former Right Hand, “mages are not villains. Alexius took advantage of them.”

Alistair tilted his head, skepticism carving into his features. “That’s a generous offer, Grand Enchanter. I doubt you’ll find better.”

Fiona beamed back at Petrina, resolve crisp in those spring-green irises. “We accept. We’d be mad not to, and whatever your companions’ thoughts on the matter, I trust you to preserve this arrangement. The Breach will be sealed, you have my word.”

Petrina was too glad to leave Redcliffe. She sat away from the fire when they broke to camp that night, picking at her food. Cullen’s stare haunted her. His willingness to die for her startled her, troubled her. When they met, back on the mountains overlooking Haven, he hadn’t been anything but hostile to her. _“We lost a lot of people getting you here. I hope it was worth it.”_ That was in addition to his obstinance about her reaching out to the mages for aid with the Breach, of course. _Why would you die for me?_ It went against all she knew of Templars, even former ones. She wasn’t a holy symbol. She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t a prophetess. She was a woman, as mortal and fallible as any.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked, a million miles away.

She set her plate of food on the log beside her, fingers pulling into a steeple. “Not really.”

“I’m terrible with emotional conversations, but should you wish to speak of what happened…”

“You were there,” she returned, “you saw what happened.”

“It seemed to affect you,” Dorian continued, “his death.”

She pushed back a lump of unease. “I never knew a Templar willing to die for me, and certainly not _him_.”

“Well, he’s not a Templar anymore, is he?”

“As if that matters,” she scoffed, “the things they’re taught, the life they’re enveloped in, it’s not an easy thing to shed.”

Dorian leaned against a nearby pine, hands folding in front of him. “They listen to you. This Inquisition of yours, I mean. You could change it, for the better.”

“Will they listen?” she challenged. “We tried so hard before the rebellion, and no one heard us out.”

“Things tend to change in the wake of a brutal, guerilla war.”

She stood, shaking numbness from her legs. “Even getting this far was a miracle.”

“You underestimate how persuasive you can be,” he objected, tugging at his mustache. “You’re calm and level-headed, even when you’re angry. People will listen to that. I never could master it myself. Too impatient.”

She headed for her tent. When she slept, she dreamed of red lyrium and Cullen in that pride demon’s hand. Sometimes his face thinned into Ollie’s. She woke to the trill of birds outside her tent, and Cassandra’s concern. “You talk in your sleep,” the Seeker said.

“Nightmares, nothing more,” Petrina sniffed, reaching for a change of clothes.

Doubt riddled Cassandra’s expression. “You’re sure?”

“I’d know if it was anything else,” Petrina snapped. On that note, Cassandra fell silent. Petrina changed her clothes and braided her hair again. She would worry about irritating the prickly Seeker later. For now, there was _one_ major concern at the fore of Petrina’s thoughts, and that was the blonde ex-Templar in Haven.

She hadn’t informed Cullen about the status of the mage alliance. Cassandra insisted that could wait until they returned to Haven. Petrina was dreading that conversation. She hoped that the dearth of lyrium in Cullen’s veins had dulled his abilities. Spell purges hurt worse than any lashing. _He isn’t going to purge you._ She ran her tongue over her upper lip. Time would tell if his promise that she had “nothing to fear” was a good one.

* * *

 

Returning to Haven with the mages in tow felt a lot like the night First Enchanter Serrion summoned Petrina for her Harrowing. She had the same nauseating sense of terror as her legs carried her to the Chantry that she’d worn that night when he woke her. Petrina went ahead of the others into the Chantry, a surprising amount of courage propelling her forward. Cassandra loped behind. From the lilting call of voices down the hall, Petrina surmised that news of her decision had reached Haven. Leliana was speaking with Cullen and Josephine, the former’s face a stark magenta hue. As his golden eyes landed on Petrina, her heart lodged in her throat. “What were you thinking?” he demanded, charging toward her. “Setting the mages loose with no oversight?”

Dryness pressed at her tongue. _Never trust a Templar._ Thrusting back a wad of bile, she steadied her thrumming nerves. “We’re not monsters. We’re people. We can control ourselves just like anyone else,” she said with all the calm she could muster.

“This isn’t about control,” Cullen snapped, head swaying, “any mage can be overcome by demons in conditions like these…”

“Any Templar can justify his abuse of mages with a pathetic excuse like blood magic!” she backlashed.

His eyes narrowed. She let her brows plunge downward. At the lull in the arguing, Cassandra stepped between them, throwing a pointed look at Cullen. “The _sole_ purpose of the Herald’s mission was to obtain the mages’ cooperation in sealing the Breach. I may not agree with her decision in its entirety, but she accomplished her purpose. I suggest we start preparing for the assault on the Breach,” the Seeker instructed, nodding to Josephine and Leliana. Both women scurried off to begin making arrangements for lyrium, staffs, and mage armor. Once they were out of earshot, Cassandra threw lethal glares between Cullen and Petrina. “I don’t know which one of you is worse, honestly, but this is embarrassing. I expect you to have your differences worked out in two days’ time, when we’re ready to assault the Breach.” Cassandra jostled Cullen’s shoulder on her way past him, though the pull of her mouth indicated she was unsatisfied with _both_ the mage and former Templar.

Petrina inched back as Cullen started toward her. She spared him one last, sweeping dash of her irises alongside a feral hiss, “ _This_ is why I don’t trust Templars,” before striding out of the Chantry. She made it to her cabin as the ghosts needled her mind, whispers of callused hands on bare thighs, a leer at her ears.

_“No one will believe you…”_

Eager for a distraction, she sat down at her little writing desk to begin her long-awaited response to Rowan’s earlier letter. For once in her life, she told her brother the truth he sought. As she shoved her signet ring into the vellum to seal the letter, she swore under her breath. Maker help her if they were reading her letters here.

A shout past her door caught her attention. Jogging from her cabin, she emerged to find a crowd clustering near the Chantry. A mage was on the ground, swathed in Kirkwall red, sleeve pressed to his nose, eyes round. Looming over him was a blanched Templar, almost as pale as her ashen hair. Petrina charged through the onlookers. “What is this?” she prompted the Templar.

“I saw red in the snow… I thought… maybe…”

“You thought what? You’d beat the daylights out of the lad?” Petrina snapped, kneeling before the mage. He let her check the wound. His nose wasn’t broken, just inflamed. A quick healing spell would repair the damage, but trust was a harder thing to earn.

“I made a mistake, Worship, I didn’t…”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” she interjected, golden light emanating from her fingers. Much of the gawking crowd shrank back at the blatant use of magic. Once the spell waned, she stepped back from the mage. “But you hurt him regardless,” she said to the Templar.

The Templar tucked her offending, gauntleted hand behind her back. “It was a mistake. The Chantry doesn’t punish for earnest…”

“ _I_ am not the Chantry,” Petrina snipped, “nor is the Inquisition the Chantry. If you have a problem following orders and rules here, or need a reminder that orders are to be followed, your shield and sword will be confiscated.”

“You haven’t the authority, Worship,” the Templar heckled, though her laugh shook as it echoed from her.

Petrina raised an eyebrow. “The _chosen_ of Andraste sent from the Fade doesn’t have the _authority_ to dictate that mages are treated as people, not property?”

The Templar’s snort reeked of unspoken derision. “Andraste wouldn’t send a mage.”

“It doesn’t matter whether your precious prophetess sent me,” Petrina continued, “you committed a wrong on _Inquisition_ territory against an ally of the _Inquisition_. You will turn your sword and shield, along with any other weaponry and armor you own, into Commander Cullen before dawn tomorrow.”

“That’s… ridiculous!”

“Your Templar services are hereby suspended until further notice,” Petrina declared.

The Templar’s jaw slackened. “What? You can’t do that!”

“She can, and I think it’s a fair punishment.”

Petrina tensed as Cullen materialized at her back. The Templar nodded her assent in his presence. She scurried off to do as asked. The rest of the crowd dissipated, likely under a look Cullen threw them. He had some mean expressions in him. _Every Templar does._ “Thank you,” Petrina managed, “for… for that.”

“I was hoping we could talk,” he said, “about… earlier.”

She flipped her wrist toward Haven. “After you.”

To her astonishment, he strode ahead of her. Together, they walked toward the cluster of tents serving as the Inquisition’s barracks. She didn’t like the idea of going too far from Haven, but she also didn’t want others overhearing this conversation. _They’ll notice if he does something to me_ , she concluded with a swallow as they threaded their way through the tents. He didn’t speak a word to her until they were past prying eyes and ears of the Inquisition’s growing membership. “I feel that I… was… perhaps unclear in the Chantry,” he said.

“You were _quite_ clear as to how you feel about mages.” She crossed her arms. “Do you and I have a problem as well?” Blue hummed as she raised her right hand, dancing between her fingers like wisps in the night.

He swung his head toward her. “No!” he cried. He paused to add, “No, I just… the mages are risking their lives to close the Breach, as are you, and I want to make sure you are all safe.”

A knot uncoiled in her gut. _Ah._ She rubbed at her nose, uncertainty replacing her previous harshness. “We know the risks. These mages are the best at their craft. They know what they’re doing. You don’t need to worry so much.”

He turned to her fully then, concern broiling in his expression. “Have you _seen_ an abomination? Do you know what they’re capable of?”

“I do,” she said, loathing the stale earnestness of her tone. Ollie’s screams reverberated in the backs of her ears. “Most mages know what abominations can do to us, our friends, our…” She lowered her lashes at the lump welling in her throat. “Our lovers,” she finished.

“Then you understand my request for caution.”

“Caution shouldn’t entail constant supervision. The power Templars had over us,” she said, “it was bound to be abused, and it _was_ abused. That cannot and _must_ not happen again. I will not support an Inquisition that shackles mages.”

Sympathy lightened his expression. “Nor will I,” he said, “I am not your enemy in this, Herald.”

She tilted her head. “If that’s true,” she ventured, “then you need to stop questioning my every decision, chastening me as if I’m some fool idolizing blood magic and Tevinter.”

He pursed his lips. “I don’t think you’re a fool.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, _that’s_ why you’ve _never_ questioned any of my decisions.”

A long gust of breath tore from him. “Maker,” he grumbled, fingers running through his blonde waves, “I didn’t mean… I was simply concerned for your safety. That magic in your mark is unpredictable, and with demons about, not to mention all the red lyrium…”

_Concern?_ Worse, it seemed genuine. Teeth clenching, she bobbed her head. Humiliation daggered her gut. She’d made a fool out of herself. _He’s here. He’s trying to be a better person. Are you?_ That stream of sentences ran through her head in Elise’s eloquent voice. “You need to work on your delivery,” she muttered.

Of all the things she expected him to say or do, she wasn’t ready when he _laughed_. Open-mouthed, bright-eyed, carefree, he even tipped his head back to catch the alpine bright. She watched him, something tugging at her as he pealed with laughter. It was a nice look on him. He seemed gentler when he laughed. She could almost forget the lyrium whisper on his scent when he grinned like that. Her heart seized as his eyes found hers, that mirth dwindling at last. “You’re not the first to tell me as much,” he wheezed, pausing to study her, “are you alright?”

She thumbed at her forehead. Her face may as well have been an inferno. “I’m fine,” she lied. _Maker help me, he’s serious, isn’t he?_ It was the tension, that was all. But he was rather attractive when he let himself go like that. _“You’re lovely when you smile,”_ Ollie hummed in her memory, staff-worn fingers toying with a lock of her jet hair.

_And you’re dead._ “I’m fine,” she repeated to Cullen’s retreating footfalls crunching in the snow. Turning to the grey-green maelstrom whirling over the Frostbacks, Petrina released a low breath. “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE! Kind of... I finished my bar application. :D Hooray, one step closer to being a Real Lawyer! My main issues now are my two remaining finals, coupled with final projects that my other courses are requiring I complete despite me really just not being in the mood to do them (like this v-log about what I learned at my internship). Sorry this took so long, and it's shorter than the other chapter, sorry for that too as well... but it's a breather, at least? xD This was another rewrite-ish, in that I slapped what I had from the original chapter into the new stuff and worked around it to smooth out the edges. If you like it, don't be afraid to let me know! :D


	6. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the mages in Redcliffe and Magister Alexius in chains, it is time for the Herald and Commander of the Inquisition's forces to begin collaborating for the assault on the Breach. However, circumstance and political disagreements may delay the Inquisition's ultimate plan a while longer. The Arl of Redcliffe has returned to his castle, and he is hardly in the mood for pleasantries given recent events.

An eerie calm swept in over Haven, even with the mages settling in. There were a sprinkling of tiffs Cullen found himself mitigating, some between Templar and mage, others between clerics and mages, some between all three. Foolish as it was, sometimes he caught himself searching the sea of hooded figures for a flash of red-gold hair or emerald eyes. She wasn’t here, and any of her siblings had probably regrouped in Kirkwall, those that lived. On occasion, Cullen glimpsed a swipe of a jet braid among the unfamiliar mages, heard the tinkling of laughter rising up from the crowd. A laugh he only heard from a distance. In truth, he hadn’t thought her capable of happiness when they met on that frostbitten mountain after the Conclave blew to bits. She’d been so stone-faced and hardened, a stark contrast to the warmth Felicity Amell exuded in Ferelden.

It was hypocrisy, as ever. Cassandra wasn’t wrong when she’d cornered Cullen and Petrina in the Chantry after their argument the other day. They were both to blame. Maker, it was hard. Petrina was the Herald. She could spout fire from her hands on a whim, yet she cared deeply for the mages. He saw it in the light that bloomed behind her frigidity when she spoke of them, was around them. And, Maker, she’d risked her life in Redcliffe, not that she’d told anyone what happened up at the castle. Only Alexius and Dorian knew the truth, but the former was imprisoned, and Cullen couldn’t stand the latter.

The report Petrina handed in after Redcliffe was sparse, littered in rigid, logical accounts of magical theory and time travel. She mentioned red lyrium, a Thedas without Empress Celene, an army of demons, and a mysterious Elder One who conquered Thedas. It didn’t make sense, and privately, Leliana agreed with Cullen. There was something Petrina had left out, large chunks of time. She’d, no doubt, confided in Dorian and Solas about such things. Asking them was futile, as one was an elven apostate and the other was gifted in the art of deflection.

 _Deflection_ , Cullen recalled presently with a snort as he gulped down more of his honeyed tea. That was a mild term for the way Dorian shielded himself from emotional discussions. He was from Tevinter, highborn, and a mage, the distrust was probably ingrown at that point.

Something had to be done, of course. Cullen finished his tea as a door slammed somewhere down the hall. He cursed his luck at having breakfast in the Chantry. Most days, the pages delivered him food. _I just had to have my tea._

Any lingering optimism he had for the day evaporated at the woman that glided into view. Cassandra’s words pounded in his ears as he regarded the petite mage, twirling at her signet ring, shifting her feet. He hadn’t realized his breath was held until she broke eye contact to peruse the scant breakfast spread on the table before him.

_“I don’t know which one of you is worse, honestly, but this is embarrassing. I expect you to have your differences worked out in two days’ time, when we’re ready to assault the Breach.”_

_Two days._ Cassandra could have asked for the moon and stars, that would’ve been an easier request. Cullen stabbed at the cooling croissant on his plate. China and metal clacked as the Herald set to work making her morning meal. They’d spoken the other day. At the least, they’d found _something_ akin to common ground. It came after a tumultuous day, though. Did it even matter to her? _Does it matter to you?_

“It’s… a nice day,” Cullen offered. The words seemed stiff and awkward against his tongue.

Petrina, midway through pouring herself some tea, paused to lift a brow. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed. It’s always so damned cold down here.”

 _Right. She’s a Marcher._ Cursing his lack of decorum, Cullen changed tack. “The mages are settling in nicely.”

“Interesting how civilized people become when they aren’t constantly afraid of Templar violence, isn’t it?” she asked, though it lacked her usual ire. Those red lips of hers had quirked upward in the slightest of smirks. He could’ve imagined it, but for the sunlight illuminating the glint in her eye. A shard of mischief, of humanity, of _emotion_ , beneath that marble-like mask she wore.

The expression was almost warm. _For a fire mage, she’s awfully cold._ Cullen cut into his cold croissant with a steel knife. They would need to train the mages to work alongside Templars if this plan of hers was going to work. It was one of the first problems he’d raised with Leliana, even telling her that these mages Petrina brought back weren’t like the battle mages Leliana recruited at the Spire.

 _Two days to work out our differences._ That didn’t mean liking each other. “I meant that to assault the Breach successfully, we will need to train the mages to work alongside Templars.”

Soft sunlight drifted in through an adjacent window, bathing the room in white. For a moment, in the stillness, all was solemn and almost peaceful. He prayed she couldn’t hear the blood pulsing in his ears. “I’m surprised threatening mages isn’t having the result you anticipated, Commander,” she scoffed.

Pushing back his initial swell of indignance, he swiped his hand over the back of his head. Short hair lashed at his callused fingers. Her stare on him dredged up memories of the wolves that lurked in the hills of Honnleath, searching for wayward sheep or cow to eat during wan winters. This was a terrible idea. There wasn’t a chance in Thedas she’d help him with this, not without something to her in return. And yet, he had no choice. Vivienne was plain about distrusting “Fiona and her miscreants.” Solas insisted he “lacked the expertise” needed to coordinate former Circle mages. Dorian was from Tevinter, and while they tolerated him, they didn’t trust him quite yet. _Two days._

“You know they’ll listen to you,” Cullen urged, loathing the desperation that sang in his ears.

Stirring cream into her tea, Petrina cleared her throat. “You think so? You realize the Circle system spanned across all of Southern Thedas, yes? I know nothing about the Circle at Starkhaven, for instance.”

“They will listen to you more than they will a loyalist, an apostate, or a mage from Tevinter.”

“Or a _Templar_ ,” she sneered. Shoulders falling, she lowered her tea spoon. Steel clacked against china. “This is because of what Cassandra said yesterday, isn’t it?”

“Strategically, Herald, the mages will need someone to guide them. You’re in the field every day, fighting alongside non-mages.”

“Surprised you trust me with something so crucial to the Inquisition.”

 _I have no choice._ That thought dulled as an image of her, flushed and uncertain outside Haven flitted to his thoughts again. For a brief moment in time, she’d been civil to him, almost cordial. “For good or ill, you’ve brought us this far, and now we must see the rest of this through.”

Downing more tea, she wrapped her hands around the cup’s porcelain curvature. “Always so pragmatic.” Her brows plunged against her fair forehead. A shadow swept over her expression.

Cullen let his curiosity seep past his composure this time. “I’m sorry?”

Her lashes dipped downward, and she unleashed a long, trembling sigh. “In that odd future Dorian and I experienced, you were the same way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t expect you to,” she clipped, glaring into her teacup. “You’ll have your battle mages for the Breach.”

He pursed his lips, but her swift departure robbed him of any attempted apology. An apology for an offense he didn’t know he’d caused. Cursing through his teeth, he crammed the rest of his frigid croissant down his throat before fleeing the small dining hall. He narrowly avoided a collision with Cassandra. “Just the person I was hoping to see,” she said, “seems we have a problem.”

 _What now?_ “When don’t we have a problem?” Cullen grunted.

“There’s a dragon nesting in the Hinterlands,” Cassandra said.

Breath tore from him. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, several of Leliana’s scouts have seen it flying up in the hills.”

“A _high_ dragon?” he pressed. Ferelden was known for its hospitality to the creatures, in that the depths of its wilderness often hosted two or three of them at once. After the Blight, things had probably grown dire for dragons. All he knew was that _someone_ would have to kill this dragon before it wandered close to Haven.

“I do know what they look like, Commander, and yes,” Cassandra said, “I don’t suppose we have the numbers to deal with it.”

“No,” Cullen finalized. The men and women they’d managed to recruit were green as could be, many from the countryside and looking to help, others survivors of the war. Sending them against a beast ten times their size would result in a slaughter. _To say nothing of morale._

“Then the Herald and I will need to take a small party to deal with the dragon.”

“Is that wise?”

“I’ll ask her opinion, and I suppose we’ll see.”

Cassandra put a lot of trust in a mage that seemed to loathe every second of her presence here. Cullen deigned against questioning that decision. He’d have time to parse it out in the war room later, anyhow. Beyond questioning the wisdom of trusting Petrina, he worried about sending their only means of closing rifts into open battle with a dragon. Regardless of his opinion, it seemed the Breach would have to wait a while longer. At least until this dragon was dealt with. A small part of him was relieved.

Outside the Chantry, Cullen blinked past the first etchings of daylight to the static lilt of magic on the air. In the yard, the mages were a blur of colors and staves. Petrina stood ahead of them, hands on her hips, the stoniness she shrouded herself in around him a distant memory. He pushed forward, pausing as he noticed the Iron Bull and that odd Grey Warden, Blackwall, arguing about something. “The Vint isn’t so bad,” the Bull was saying as Cullen neared.

“Has his head stuck up his ass, if you ask me,” Blackwall grunted, tugging at his dark beard. It was a marvel, how much hair he was covered in. By Marcher standards, it was normal, maybe. He was kind enough, if a tad strange.

“A highborn mage type, just like the boss, you know,” the Bull continued.

Blackwall narrowed his grey-blue eyes. “Don’t go comparing them. That’s hardly fair.”

“Apples and oranges might be different, but they’re also similar. They’re both round, and they’re both fruit,” the Bull continued, his horned head tilting toward Cullen.

The Fereldan feigned disinterest on his trek past. Blackwall didn’t have a rebuttal to _that_ point, it seemed. _It’s a decent point._ Across the way, Dorian had his nose buried in a book, back turned toward the men, sunlight washing over his garish tunic. He was always alone, it seemed. Unlike Solas, who preferred solitude, Dorian seemed to sulk in his newfound isolation. Yet, he made no effort to mingle with the others.

_One could say the same of you._

Laughter spilled from the mages nearby, drawing Cullen’s attention. Several apprentices had tumbled into the snows, the white strangely vibrant against Ostwick green and Kirkwall red. All of them were red-faced with hysteric laughter. Petrina loped toward them, perhaps checking to ensure no blood had been drawn. More laughter chorused from the mages. Blood and flame pulsed in Cullen’s memories, Kirkwall and Ferelden. Turquoise irises glared back at him from the dying vestiges of daylight washing over Kirkwall’s Gallows. A callused, sun-browned hand tightened against a staff’s scarlet cloth grip, sea-salted winds tousling shoulder-length black hair. _“I am Dahlia Hawke of Ferelden, scion of House Amell, and Champion of Kirkwall. You can’t bludgeon me into submission, Knight-Commander,”_ that familiar, lilting voice had snarled, devoid of the impish humor she normally exuded.

A chill ran down Cullen’s back as his former commander’s orders pulsed in his ears, crisp and clear as they were that night: _“Kill them.”_ Hawke flicked her eyes toward him, narrowing in apprehension, yet also recognizing the turmoil playing out across his features. He’d caught a silent plea written into her stare. The brute of a man she called her younger brother had inched closer, still swathed in Warden blue and silverite, one hand perched on the hilt of the enormous sword strapped to his back. That wiry pirate, Isabela, that often flanked Hawke, stepped closer too, twin daggers glinting beneath a shaft of encroaching moonlight. Out of all of them, even Varric solemnly cocking Bianca, Cullen recalled Isabela’s expression with the most clarity: half-feral in its protective devotion. After the pirate came Hawke’s brute of a brother, hefting that enormous blade from his back.

_“You’ll have to go through me.”_

In truth, Cullen didn’t remember what happened next. He refused Knight-Commander Meredith’s orders.

_“My own knight-captain, corrupted by blood magic.”_

The sound of steel whispering against leather scabbards still echoed in his ears, alongside the sound of plate and mail shifting as trained soldiers raised their shields. A shield he still carried, one that bore the Templar insignia of a flaming sword. The shield itself was bordered in crimson. In his darkest moments after Kirkwall fell, he found himself staring at that red border and comparing it to the blood that had run through the streets and from mages’ hands before it turned to fire or frost or lightning.

 _You aren’t the only one who spent time under the shield._ The present cracked through Cullen’s ghosts in streaks of white sunlight. Jet hair slashed through the monotony of Haven’s white snows and brown timber. A lump formed in his throat as her gaze migrated toward him, narrowing a fraction. Reading him. Judging him. _Or waiting for you to purge her and cut her down._

The urge to turn and run filled Cullen. It would’ve been easier to flee. Yet, he didn’t run. Instead, his feet dragged him toward her. She didn’t recoil, nor did she smile. Thrusting aside the discomfort drying out his mouth, Cullen gestured toward the mages. “They listen to you,” he said. None of the mages paid him any mind, their efforts wholly devoted to practicing their staff movements.

Wind moaned as it tumbled down the mountains toward them. She flinched against the chill. “They _work_ when Templars aren’t breathing down their necks.”

A thousand reassurances and apologies swam in his head, just out of his tongue’s reach by way of a heaping dose of doubt and a desire to avoid irritating her. Though, she was easy to set off. His very breath seemed to drive her into a rage. “Respectfully, Herald, I meant no offense.”

No mocking laughter or simmering glare trailed from her at those words. Winter sunlight grew scalding on the back of his neck as he waited for her response. Callused, flushed hands tightened into fists at her sides. “You died for me.”

“What?”

“In that odd future,” she continued, “a pride demon broke through the door. It killed you. I watched you die in its hand.”

 _I didn’t know you cared about what happened to me._ “I see.”

“Dorian and I needed more time to prepare the spell,” she went on, brow creasing, “you… were the last thing I saw before we reached the present, right as you died.”

 _She’s worried. Why?_ Prodding further was akin to stepping on eggshells, but Cullen couldn’t help himself. “Herald, that future isn’t going to happen. You stopped Alexius.”

“But not the Elder One.” A rigid line settled between her shoulders. Severity washed over her expression, the harsh placid look she’d worn when they met on the mountain. “We don’t even know who or _what_ he is, let alone what he wants or how he plans to accomplish it.”

“We’ll figure it out. There’s strength in numbers.” He nodded toward the mages opposite them, moving staffs and limbs in eerie, practiced unison. It was almost perfect. He deigned against pointing out the imperfections.

Petrina’s attention was trained on the Breach scarring the distant sky. “I didn’t take you for an optimist.”

“You came back alive with the mages in tow.” It was almost miraculous, particularly considering what she’d experienced in that odd future.

“I did.” She threaded her fingers together, locking her hands behind her back. The sunlight was too vibrant against the peacock blue-teal of her tunic, making the color almost glow. “I wonder, though, do you believe I’m the Herald?”

Curses pooled in Cullen’s head, each more colorful than the last. He hadn’t any idea what to think. All he understood was that people, for whatever reason, came to Haven and stayed. The mages followed her, trusted her, listened to her. Whether any of that made her a _Herald_ was another matter. “I don’t know.”

“You’re Andrastian,” she returned with a wry smile, “and a former Templar. That’s hardly surprising.”

The hostility she bore him didn’t echo against her syllables this time. “You’re not religious.” More of an observation than a question.

“You’re not _that_ surprised.”

Those words pulled a chuckle from him. No, he wasn’t that surprised. Cassandra had told him, now that he recollected some of their earlier conversations about their illustrious _Herald_. “I suppose not.”

Across the way, a pair of Kirkwall mages spun, robes fanning out like scarlet plumes of blood against the white snow. Mesmerized, Cullen watched them bring dull wooden staffs down on frosted earth. Petrina gnawed at her lower lip, crisp white teeth tugging at soft red skin. He forced his attention back toward the mages, cheeks burning. _Maker, I’m not a lecher._ When she wasn’t glaring or spitting venom at him, she was quite fetching. Loathing settled in over him at that thought. “If you don’t believe in the Maker,” he said, syllables trembling, “what do you believe in?”

She dipped her head, braid slipping past her shoulder. A stammering exhalation trailed from her. “I suppose I put my faith in personal determination.”

“Doesn’t that get lonely?”

Her crimson mouth thinned into a hard line. “Perhaps, but there’s less room for disappointment.”

Remembering the mentions of Templar conflicts in her dossier, Cullen nodded. A sparrow cooed nearby, followed by the trailing call of a cardinal streaking red against the blue heavens. Petrina watched the birds a moment, wonder overriding her perpetual harshness. A fraction of a smile ticked at the corner of her lips. For a moment, those walls she shrouded herself within like a widow’s mourning garments, parted and he saw her not as a former Circle mage shattered and broken by a war not of her own making, not as a highborn Marcher stranded in Southern Thedas, but as a woman. A woman who bore war-torn scars and disjointed beliefs that echoed his own.

They didn’t speak again until that evening in the war room. Cullen had almost forgotten Cassandra’s news about the dragon. He kept quiet for most of the meeting, letting Josephine and Leliana move figurines and pins around on the map while Petrina studied her marked hand in silence. Cassandra waited until everything was settled to mention the dragon. At that moment, the sullen mage that had trudged through her obligations to the Inquisition came alive.

“Dragon?” Petrina asked the Seeker. “What did it look like?”

Cassandra emitted an obnoxious huff. “It was big and yellow, breathed fire, at least that’s what the reports say.”

“If it was flying about in the Hinterlands, maybe a Fereldan Frostback,” Petrina went on, undeterred.

“It was flying in a canyon,” Leliana supplied. “ _Deep_ in the Hinterlands.”

“She’s nesting, then.”

Cullen ran a quick massage over his forehead. “Herald, respectfully, how do you know this?”

“What do you think I studied in Tevinter, Commander?” Petrina quipped, grinning ear to ear.

Startled by her raw expression of happiness, his breath caught. In that instant, the bitter mage that railed against him vanished. She became just a woman, as mortal, fallible, as _human_ , as him. _As lost as you are in the wake of this war, the demolishing of the Circle._

“I thought you studied ancient Tevinter theology,” Cassandra cut in, failing to mask her amusement at the Herald’s sudden warmth.

“What do you think they worshiped in ancient Tevinter? The old gods were dragons,” Petrina said. “The field now has devolved into draconology, which is more focused on anatomical and biological aspects of dragons, but I also dealt with historical and anthropological branches regarding the worship of them.” Studying the blank faces around her, she coughed. “The _larger_ point is that if this is a Fereldan Frostback, it will breathe fire, and it will likely be nesting. Fire-breathers, especially of this breed, tend to settle in shaded areas, often canyons so their hatchlings have room to grow and feed. Given the area’s proximity to a warzone, I’d wager she’s anticipating lots of corpses for her young to feed on.”

Pushing back a swell of bile at that notion, Cullen readjusted the blade at his hip. “Then we’ll need to eliminate her and the nest.”

“Which will be quite a task,” Josephine mused.

“Hatchlings will be no larger than Orlesian lapdogs. More troubling will be the mother,” Petrina said.

“You’re a fire mage,” Cassandra pointed out, “we will need more than fire to defeat her.”

“I’m decent with lightning,” Petrina said. Her brows plunged as she surveyed the map. “The area is large enough for us to find some cover, but my barriers should hold against her flames.”

It was going to be a risk. She knew nothing about killing dragons. _Maker, she’s probably never even seen one._ Then again, neither had Cullen. Not up close. “Is this wise?” he asked. “We have regulars at the Crossroads who could help…”

“No,” Petrina interrupted, “we’re not enlisting those men and women to fight this beast.”

“Herald…”

Pins and map pieces clacked as the table jostled beneath her fists against its scrubbed wooden face. Fury simmered in her features. “They are risking their _lives_ for the Inquisition. I won’t have them dying beneath dragon fire for me. We can handle a dragon. Varric fought a few with Hawke, after all.”

“Yes, because _Varric_ never exaggerates,” Cullen rebutted.

A saccharine smile stamped itself into her expression then. “Worried for me, Commander?”

“You know the answer to that,” he grunted.

“ _I’ll_ make sure she doesn’t do anything reckless,” Cassandra said, throwing a dubious glare on Petrina.

“The hides are useful,” Leliana chimed in, “our soldiers and even our mages could use whatever resources the carcass yields.”

“I’ll make a note,” Josephine said, scribbling away at her tablet, “to send some of our noble allies to secure the carcass from scavengers.”

“There _is_ another matter,” Leliana said, producing a crisp sheet of paper from her pocket. She smoothed the paper out before planting it over the map.

Cassandra snatched the paper. In an instant, her expression curdled. “Surely this could wait,” she huffed, nose scrunching as she handed the paper to Petrina.

Cullen tossed a glance in Leliana’s direction. She mouthed one name: “Arl Teagan.” He drew a sharp breath. It was quick, seemingly _too_ fast for word to spread from the arl. Then again, King Alistair and his soldiers had moved in swiftly on receiving word of the mages’ actions at Redcliffe. Maker only knew the anger Arl Teagan bore those mages, and now their protector.

“Arl Teagan wants an audience,” Petrina remarked, mirthless but for the glint her eyes bore.

“That’s not the problem,” Cassandra said, scowling at Leliana, “the problem is that we have no time to grant him one.”

Straightening her spine, Leliana nodded. “Unfortunately, Cassandra is correct, Herald.”

Petrina ran her tongue over her upper lip. “Be that as it may, we have no choice.”

Cullen jumped in then, “Herald, we need you here aiding the mages in their preparation for the assault on the Breach.”

“It is also _incredibly_ risky,” Leliana said, “considering you are an unknown. Arl Teagan, like many Fereldans, doesn’t trust outsiders easily.”

Studying the paper again, Petrina laid it back down on the table. “Be that as it may, he needs to meet me, see me, hear me, make sure I’m not…” Chin ducking, she rapped a finger at the rumpled parchment sheet. “Prepare for an audience with him at once, Ambassador.”

“If you’re certain,” Josephine said, pen tip hovering over her tablet.

“Surely the Herald doesn’t need to go alone,” Cassandra suggested.

“No, but I should,” Petrina said, tugging at the silver braid hem on her sleeve.

“I agree,” Josephine replied as Cassandra’s frown deepened, “though perhaps she may have _one_ other companion.”

Cullen became aware then of a hard object digging into his side. One look down told him it was an elbow ramming hard at his ribs. _This is a terrible idea._ “Perhaps a former Templar in good standing with the Chantry,” Leliana mused.

Color fell from Cassandra’s features, though Petrina blanched right up to her hairline. Josephine emitted a stuttering giggle. “Are you… certain?” she asked the spymaster.

“Why not?” Leliana asked. “Unless our commander has some objections…”

“No,” Cullen intoned. Petrina locked gazes with him, rigid distaste and suspicion hewn into her features. Or perhaps it was simple discomfort for the fact that they’d have to reside in proximity to each other on the week-long trek to Redcliffe.

“We’ll need to postpone closing the Breach,” Cassandra said, tongue clicking, “have we any news of its stability?”

“Sealing the rifts in the Hinterlands seems to have helped things,” Leliana said.

“It will hold until this mess and the dragon are dealt with,” Josephine assured the former Seeker. She tucked a curl behind her ear. “However, Commander Cullen, you’ll need to work on your manners if we’re to arrange an audience with the arl.”

“I can handle speaking with the arl,” Petrina said, thumbing at her signet ring.

“At least _peruse_ one of my etiquette books,” Josephine recommended, “you’ll have plenty of time while the Herald is off dragon-hunting.”

 _Assuming the dragon doesn’t eat her_ , Cullen thought. Looking at her now, he realized how small she was, how slight her build, even with those rigid shoulders and her hard expressions. He didn’t want to bring up the logic of a fire mage fighting a dragon. It would be one more thing for her to berate him over, and Maker knew there was plenty of bad blood between them already. _Buckets of it that dried on the streets of Kirkwall or seeped into the mortar of the Fereldan tower._

Voices echoed back to him through those crimson-soaked memories.

_“Hopefully your hatred hasn’t doomed you.”_

_“Mages are humans and elves like the rest of us.”_

* * *

 " _You’d do well to remember your place.”_

_Cullen set his teeth, grip white-knuckled around his sword hilt. Dust and heat clotted the air that afternoon, Kirkwall’s perpetual summer pounding at the Gallows’ yard like a forge’s flame. The deafening snap of a whip on skin was followed soon enough by a dehydrated scream. “It’s against Chantry law to make mages that have passed their Harrowing rituals Tranquil,” Meredith’s glacial voice slashed through the deafening stillness, “else you’d be branded and dead-eyed like the rest.”_

_He didn’t know what brought his attention toward the poor soul on the whipping post. All he knew was that when he glanced in its direction, he was facing a set of simmering silver irises set beneath mussed raven hair. Pride and defiance blistered in her features, even as she hung limply from the post courtesy of bruised, rope-worn wrists. His mouth ran dry._

_“Templar,” she snarled. Her ruby mouth opened in another cry as the whip fell against her once more._

_He inched back, rounding on his heel. He’d hoped to head back to his studies or to catch up on paperwork. Instead, he found himself facing Felicity Amell, swathed in Warden blue and silverite, accusation bright in her emerald eyes. “I thought you said you didn’t like hurting mages,” she said._

Cullen woke with a gasp to his vacant tent and an ache stabbing his forehead. He massaged his forehead before reaching for one of the potions in his letterbox. He downed the bottle in a gulp, ignoring its sting on his throat and tongue. A slim ribbon of blue light was seeping into his tent. _Not long until sunrise._

Donning his blade and attire, he headed out into the beckoning blue. The Breach simmered above the Frostbacks that yawned over Haven like towers. A shout tore his attention from the gruesome gash in the sky. From where he stood, he glimpsed them striding through the gates: Varric, Cassandra, the Iron Bull, and Petrina. All were unharmed, save some fresh bruising, and a hefty sear on Petrina’s cloak. What struck Cullen more than that was the broad grin Petrina wore, an ethereal smile that made her look more like her twenty-eight years of age than the dour maturity she’d worn so often around him. It was the rarity in the expression that kept his focus on her. That smile was far more fetching than her stone-like anger and resentment.

“Ah, good.” Dorian approached from the left, stretching his arms high over his head as if he’d just woken. “It is so _good_ to see the hero return triumphant and, more importantly, alive. Dying this early tends to dampen morale, in my experience.”

“Surely you have someone else to bother at this early hour.”

“It sure _is_ cold out this morning,” Dorian hummed with a feigned shiver.

Cullen stifled a beckoning retort. A mage from Tevinter. The notion was downright insulting. Everyone vouched for Dorian’s honesty. It seemed the mage had been truthful with the Inquisition, and House Pavus was related to the Trevelyans of Ostwick. At least the rebel mages were all from Southern Thedas. More troubling was Dorian’s connection with the man currently imprisoned in the bowels of Haven’s Chantry, the man that nearly brought about their demise: Magister Gereon Alexius. _Former apprentice_ , Cullen’s thoughts blared. Thus far, Dorian hadn’t even been to visit the magister. Yet, nor had he spoken much about what happened.

“Maybe she wouldn’t be so afraid of you if you’d crack a smile once in a while,” Dorian went on.

“What are you on about now?”

“Oh, I was just complimenting you on your perpetual optimism. You’re a regular ray of sunshine, Commander.”

Realizing he preferred Petrina’s venomous dislike to Dorian’s sugary sarcasm, Cullen stalked off toward the gates. Varric greeted the former Templar with a two-fingered salute. “Curly,” the dwarf said, thumping Cullen’s forearm, “did you know Firestarter here killed a dragon?”

“We _all_ killed it,” Petrina objected, her smile waning a tad as she drank in the former Templar’s presence.

“No,” Cassandra hastened, flapping a wrist, “we’d have been dead without your barriers, to say nothing of you dealing with the hatchlings.”

The Iron Bull boomed with laughter. “Yes, you should have seen her, Commander! She was fearless, and ruthlessly efficient!”

Given how readily she’d dispersed the demons on the mountain in the immediate aftermath of the Conclave explosion, Cullen believed the Iron Bull’s words about Petrina. She was slighter than many women, even most mages. Yet, she never let that faze her. _Why would she? The Templars hurt her in the Circle at Ostwick._ Against the dryness caking his tongue, Cullen found some words to fill the awkward quiet gripping him. “Ambassador Montilyet will ensure that the carcass is secured,” he managed, forcing a smile toward Petrina. It almost felt genuine, even against the quizzical quirk of her brow.

“Good, the hide is fire-resistant,” Petrina said, “could prove useful.”

“You expect us to fight more dragons, Herald?” Cullen pressed, unease pooling in his stomach.

“Who knows?” she asked.

A grin broke his composure at the mischief wafting over her words. Her attention snapped away from him, though he swore her perpetual stoicism softened a tad. He left her to the congratulations and celebrations with her companions. Their impending journey to Redcliffe wasn’t mentioned until the next morning in the war room. Josephine offered him a garish maroon tunic belted and sashed in gold in between her last-minute lectures on etiquette and manners. He managed to decline without glaring a hole through her sugary politeness. Petrina shifted back and forth across from him, gnawing at her thumb nail. No one else seemed to notice, absorbed in the mesh of politics at play in Redcliffe.

“I can’t believe Queen Brynn would just leave,” Cassandra growled, fists curling at her sides.

Leliana bristled at the slight against her missing friend. “She wasn’t one to shirk her responsibilities, Cassandra. We’ve talked about this.” She swiped a lock of red hair behind her ear. “It’s just chance that this happened after her departure.”

“This will make things harder for us,” Cassandra clipped, dashing a look down toward the mage at her side.

“It’ll be fine,” Petrina said. Wan afternoon light lazed into the room, washing her in a golden haze. “I’ll negotiate.”

Cullen thumbed at his jawline. “I trust we’re not traveling completely alone,” he said to Josephine.

She blinked at him, then flipped through the papers on her tablet. “Not entirely,” she assured him, “I’ve arranged a small contingency guard to accompany you to Redcliffe.”

 A small comfort, but it was something. “Then you’ll head out with the dawn,” Cassandra said, “and when you return, we’ll resume our efforts against the Breach.”

“There’s not much left to do,” Petrina admitted, “save a few practices alongside the mundanes, I think the mages are ready.”

“You’re sure?” Cullen needled, unable to tamp his lingering doubt.

“It’s like I told you,” she half-sneered, “mages work quickly and well without Templars breathing down our necks.”

Flinching, he crossed his arms. It seemed too good to be true. One glance at Cassandra revealed her similar doubts, alongside a shard of faith. _She trusts Petrina._

 _Yes, maybe you should consider practicing what you preach,_ Commander _,_ Cullen’s thoughts hissed back at him. Silverite daggers gleamed in the darkened hush of a ruined tower, past a wall of pink energy as they disappeared through the Harrowing Chamber doors. “Well,” Josephine intervened, “I think that concludes this war room meeting.”

“Be at the gates before sunrise,” Leliana advised, tugging at one of her violet gloves.

“Agreed,” Petrina said, retrieving one of the crown-topped pins to wedge next to the castle resting over Redcliffe. The pin cast a long, slender shadow over Haven’s sketched cabins on the map.

 _Maker_ , Cullen thought as light lanced over that minuscule pin, _let us come out of this alive, at least._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding canon divergence to the tags. Another rewrite of a chapter. I didn’t like the original one. Too empty, too fast, etc. The usual problems. This does mean that things are going to get pushed back, as far as organization and plotting goes, so it's back to being a 6/? chapters fic. xD As for my slowness, it's finals. I'm about to graduate. I am really sorry.


	7. Return to Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Redcliffe's recent brush with Magister Alexius's plans to seize the arling, Cullen and Petrina return to a city now devoid of mages to greet a sullen Arl Teagan and seek a compromise to his dislike of the Inquisition. While all seems peaceful at a glance, Cullen and Petrina soon find themselves embroiled in a fight for their lives and maybe even Ferelden's future.

Redcliffe was a different town without Tevinter looming over it. Petrina didn’t know what to make of the place. Everyone seemed brighter, healthier, freer. A part of her was happy for them, but she felt the source of their happiness in her veins and it troubled her. They were happy because the mages were gone. _“You can change the laws, darling, and you can change the Chantry, but you can’t change their minds,”_ Ollie once told her in a moment of pure frustration during a routine evening argument. She tried hard not to dwell on him, but if she wasn’t thinking about him, she was wandering back to the red-coated halls of Redcliffe Castle in the Elder One’s future. To the sound of bones crunching and blood heaving in lungs as Cullen died for her. He wasn’t a bad man. That made things more troubling.

 _“Changing the laws could change their minds in turn,”_ Petrina remembered hurling back at Ollie. A jay cawed somewhere beyond the cramped confines of her carriage. Straightening in her seat, she studied the little compartment. Opposite her, Cullen had said all of three words since they departed Haven hours earlier. His silence was both gratifying and disturbing. Not that she was any more thrilled about this excursion than he was, though it was true that Arl Teagan was more likely to welcome a mage accompanied by a former Templar in good standing with the Chantry than one traveling alone.

 _“She’s one of the good mages,”_ she recalled people whispering behind her back on her visits home. They never saw it as an insult. Worse yet, a part of her wondered if they weren’t correct. Magic was an explosive and destructive force. No one could deny that. _Mages are_ not _an explosive and destructive force,_ her thoughts snarled. _They’re people. Not monsters._

Tracing the calluses marring her palms dredged up recent recollections of shrieks. There was that monster Wendell, but more than him, her fellow mages in the wilds of the Hinterlands, Connor and Alexius in that twisted future. The abomination that had been Ollie ripping apart the Ostwick Circle’s castle, slaughtering all in its path, beady eyes glowing in the dark. The envy demon of her Harrowing ritual that relentlessly taunted her for hours about what she’d never have under Chantry law. Her reverie cracked beneath a prick of white heat spiraling up her left arm. Green flashed in her periphery. A yelp tore from her as her mark flared, agony tearing past her elbow. Hunching against her hand, she clutched at the wrist, teeth clenching. Maker help her if this thing misfired and killed the damned commander of the Inquisition’s forces.

Breath burst from her in gasps as the mark cooled and the green dimmed. Slowly, she realized Cullen had moved to her side during that episode. Shame filled her as she made the visual trek up toward concerned amber irises. _That damned kindness of his._ “Does it do that often?” he asked.

“Not since I woke,” she said, loathing how hoarse her voice sounded.

“Solas promised us it was stable,” Cullen continued, spitting the elven mage’s name.

Petrina ran her good hand through her hair. Staff-worn fingers trembled against the gesture. It wasn’t Solas’s fault. The Fade was unpredictable, wild. _Dangerous._ For her Harrowing, it had taken the guise of a misted forest against her family’s summer estates. She remembered the chill of the lake air on her skin still, though it hadn’t been tangible. _Real._ The mark was different, somehow. “It’s magic we know nothing about,” she said, “this mark isn’t going to be stable.”

“That doesn’t frighten you?” he prompted.

“I didn’t say that.” She focused on her marked hand, noticing the slight whorls of green against her pale skin. They seemed brighter now, swirling against her fingers, fanning out against her palm. _Is it spreading?_

“We should speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona when we return.”

“We should seal the Breach when we return,” she backlashed.

“Herald, respectfully, this is your life we’re talking about.”

“It hasn’t killed me yet, has it?”

“It came close.”

Pulling her lips together, she ceded his point. Everyone still spoke about how close she’d come to dying on that mountain. Solas insisted on checking the mark each time she returned to Haven. Even he admitted to her that this was an unknown magic, that his knowledge of the Fade could help soothe her mark but not remove it.

 _And to think I scoffed at studying the Fade in the Circle._ Not that there was much to research in that department, anyway. Most information on the Fade was secured in Tevinter. Circles in Southern Thedas granted leave to study the Fade in Tevinter, but the requirements grew more stringent with each passing year after the explosion in Kirkwall. Of all the things to study in Tevinter, the Fade was considered one of the most dangerous for a mage to explore. Perhaps due to all the demons that lurked in the wings waiting to possess an unwary or weak-willed mage.

Grand Enchanter Fiona had Circle training, but that didn’t make her any more knowledgeable about the Fade than Solas. The Fade was a vast unknown for all mages, particularly apostates who were often uneducated in the dangers of demons and spirits. Yet, asking another mage, one far more tolerable than Vivienne, couldn’t hurt. _Assuming I live that long._ The Breach could just as easily prove fatal as the mark itself. Petrina pushed back that uneasy thought.

Dying in service to the Inquisition was a nauseating prospect. Her mother would be thrilled, at least. _So would Harry, assuming he’s alive._ She hadn’t thought of him in years. Apart from Elise and Rowan, Petrina hadn’t been close to the others. Harold had been a frequent source of debate for her, particularly once whispers of rebellion fluttered through the Tantervale Circle of Magi. Unlike Elise, Harry had been stationed in a mage circle the moment he earned his shield. Him and those damned rose quartz prayer beads of his traipsed off to Tantervale in a rush of Andrastian devotion unmatched by any but the prophetess herself. _He’d dance on my grave._

The notion of her arrogant elder brother dancing, Templar armor and mail still on, cracked Petrina’s composure with a snort. “What is it?” Cullen asked. She inched back as his warm breath hit her ear.

“Nothing,” she said, “just… thinking.”

“Ah.” He’d noticed her movement, given the slight incline in his shoulders. Guilt wadded in her stomach. He moved back to his seat, warm golden stare resting on her marked hand. Her index finger rapped at the velvet cushion of her seat, pressing at the soft cloth in a wan attempt to stave off memories of Harry’s livid, bloodshot stare pinning her outside an Ostwick chantry doorway.

 _“You and your damnable war!”_ he’d thundered.

 _“It isn’t my war!”_ she’d backlashed.

_“Might as well be, given all you’ve done for those abominations!”_

_“They’re not abominations, they’re people!”_

_“Not all of them are like you, Petra.”_ The shadow that cut across his profile, a stark contrast to the ivory sunlight bathing the walkway behind them, reminded her of their father. When those familiar silver irises found their path back to hers, they were swathed in sorrow and simmering resentment. _“If you knew what mages could do, what they have done, not just to Templars, but to their own, you wouldn’t side with them so readily.”_ His hand shook as those long fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist. _“Some mages deserve to be locked up.”_

That was one of the last times they spoke before the war came to Ostwick and ripped the ground out from under her. Past the carriage window, she glimpsed the statue of Brynn Cousland stretching skyward, the tip of her arrow glinting beneath the sun. From a distance, the statue was slighter than Petrina remembered, dwarfed by timber homes and thatched rooftops hunched against the stone towers of the Chantry.

Sweeping past rows of gaping, hardened faces, the carriage glided toward Redcliffe Castle. Petrina had heard of Arl Teagan. In another life, she might have met him. She knew he, like most Fereldans that survived the Blight, was fiercely loyal to his nation, distrustful of outsiders, and unlikely to believe a word she said. If she was honest, she had no idea what she was going to tell him because she had no clue what he wanted. The Inquisition had no gold to give him, no protection to grant him. Worse than that, she wasn’t just a heretical holy figure in his eyes, she was another _mage_ with Libertarian leanings. _“Leanings” is a rather loose term, don’t you think?_

It didn’t matter, even being a _mage_ was a taint. Petrina rolled her fingers together, savoring the lukewarm tingle of her signet ring against her skin. Her mother seemed to glare back from the owl’s metallic irises. Any words of wisdom about ruling a nation were passed to the two children who might one day rule the bannorn. Bann Trevelyan doted on Gregory, as the eldest. Cat also received her share of lectures on leadership and rule. Petrina, being in the Circle most of the time, received little tutorship on diplomacy and leadership. That aside, spending time back home during her visits was enough to teach her about the ways of the highborn. Deals were made behind closed doors, or through veiled, polite remarks. It all came down to resources. Land, military, trade, safety on the roads, and whoever could spin the best deal won the day.

 _He’s going to underestimate you, just as Alexius did._ Petrina pushed air through her lungs. Up ahead, the dappled shade of Redcliffe had yielded to the sunlight wash of a drawbridge leading up to the castle. The carriage slowed to a trot before halting. They could go no farther, one of the arl’s soldiers reported. Shaking legs hefted Petrina from the carriage. Cullen emerged after her, disdain stamped into his expression as he regarded the vast, stone structure that comprised Redcliffe Castle. From the banners flapping, Petrina surmised that the arl wasn’t alone. Bile hit the back of her tongue. _King Alistair._

“Herald?”

She gestured to the pennant flapping next to the arling’s. “See that? It’s the king’s insignia. He must be here to ensure his uncle’s return is peaceful,” she said. _Maker help us all._

“I suppose all that rot about banners the ambassador rattled on about was useful after all,” Cullen muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.

Despite the cold sweat running down her spine, she managed a wry grin. “You’re lucky you weren’t raised in my household. We had to memorize them.”

Together, they headed up toward the castle in unison, leaving the carriage driver and sprinkling of soldiers to negotiate with the arl’s knights. The king’s knights were up ahead, as rigid and unyielding as that fateful day the Inquisition defeated Magister Alexius. Petrina strode past them toward the main doors. Past the main doors, Redcliffe Castle was garbed in rich red carpet and sleek warm oak, the wall sconces illuminated with amber flames. Near the throne perched atop the familiar dais was a man with greying dark hair and weary hazel eyes set in a chiseled face threaded with fine lines. At his side was a familiar mop of golden hair and glaring brown eyes. Petrina’s blood went cold as King Alistair pinned her with a calculating stare. She waited to kneel until she approached, clammy hands resting against the floor. “Your Majesty,” she managed without stammering. As she rose, she threw in a grateful nod to the arl. “Arl Teagan.”

Cullen mimicked her gestures, though he said little. She snuck a glance at him once, and was surprised to find his cheeks tinted pink, his gaze dashing constantly to the walls or his boots. It hit her then that he was common-born. People with money and power were bound to make him more uncomfortable. They’d controlled much of his life, at least for a while. _I truly am alone here, then. Fantastic._ Ambassador Josephine was mired in work, else she would’ve come on this trip. That was the excuse, but Petrina remembered Cassandra’s words in the aftermath of the events at Redcliffe Castle. This was a field trip, a forceful attempt at shoving two mismatched puzzle pieces together.

“Lady Trevelyan,” Arl Teagan grunted into the quiet. “Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi at Ostwick, Libertarian, child of Bann Trevelyan, the youngest of six children, and most recently, the illustrious Herald of Andraste.”

“Not through any choice of mine,” Petrina said, keeping her tone level. It was the same answer she’d given that cleric in the Hinterlands, Mother Giselle.

“No,” Arl Teagan said, eyes narrowing as he studied her, “I expect not.”

She kept her head high. In her periphery, Cullen was shifting his weight, uncomfortable for her. _I’ve endured far worse, Arl Teagan._ “Forgive me, Milord, but I believe it was _you_ that requested an audience with me.”

“Yes, with _you_ , not you and a bodyguard.”

“Teagan,” Alistair said, “perhaps we ought to give her a chance.”

“We are here to discuss reparations, Milady,” Arl Teagan said, “for the damage caused to my name and Redcliffe under that magister’s reign.”

Cullen pursed his lips. Petrina rapped a hand against his side as his foot slid forward, stopping him in his tracks. He tossed a quizzical look down at her, and she cleared her throat. “What sort of reparations do you seek?”

“A recognition of our authority in the Hinterlands, a ceding of your forces there to the command of my knights. Now that the fighting has stopped in the region, there is no need for the Inquisition to occupy the area.”

“Herald,” Cullen cautioned.

The request was ridiculous. Long shadows slashed at whitewashed walls as daylight deepened to afternoon past arched windows. “Arl Teagan, those refugees from the war need an organized and stable force with faces and names they recognize to guide them to their loved ones,” Petrina said, “introducing your forces now could disrupt that stability we’ve established.”

“Lady Trevelyan, did you know that Ferelden was invaded by the Grey Wardens?” Arl Teagan prompted.

Her throat shrank. _Here we go._ Maker, she hadn’t even _wanted_ to be part of this Inquisition! “Respectfully, Arl Teagan, I am familiar with your nation’s history.”

“Then you understand my fears.”

“ _Our_ fears,” Alistair corrected. “Lady Herald, you are an unknown. My wife has vanished. The Blight was defeated, but now these demons threaten our lands. You and this Inquisition of yours have proven effective at eradicating those demons and bringing stability to war-torn regions, but it is also clear that your Inquisition is quickly amassing power on our borders.”

 _It isn’t_ my _Inquisition!_ “Had we any intention of invading Ferelden, Your Majesty, I am certain our positions today would be reversed,” she said. “I am not your enemy. The _Inquisition_ is not your enemy.”

“If that were the case,” Arl Teagan said, stepping from the dais toward her, “you would negotiate in good faith.” A part of her was relieved to find that he was but a few inches taller than her. _The height symmetry doesn’t help with the condescension, though. A pity._

“As would you, Milord,” she replied.

His nostrils flared. “I was under the impression negotiations required _compromise_.”

Cullen clicked his tongue over her shoulder. She pressed her fingers together behind her back. “The Hinterlands are not open to compromise at this moment.”

“A pity…” Arl Teagan’s sentence was cut short when a cry erupted down the hall. An elven young woman tore through an adjacent doorway, wide-eyed and pale, her uniform askew and the hem spattered in crimson. “What’s happened?” Arl Teagan snapped.

“One of the pages is dead, Milord,” the elf muttered, “poison, we think, but no idea from where…”

“Wonderful,” Alistair chirped with the driest of smiles, “and here I thought there would be _no_ life-threatening adventures in Redcliffe this time.”

“I’ll call for your guard to escort you to your rooms,” Arl Teagan grumbled, throwing one last look on Petrina. “I suggest you do the same, Milady. We’ll continue later.”

Petrina quelled a beckoning objection. Soldiers and servants rushed into the main hall as the arl departed. Gold-clad knights escorted Alistair out of the main hall. Inquisition soldiers, the few allowed on the castle grounds, led Petrina and Cullen down a labyrinth of halls and stairways toward a lone set of rooms. Opposite a sitting area were two doors leading to a bedchamber and washrooms, a scant relief given the silence that settled between them after that brisk and chilly reception with the arl. Petrina hadn’t expected him to be welcoming, but his rant about _good faith_ reminded her of Cat playing judge during their earliest childhood games. _“You’re not playing in good faith, Petra!”_

_“I’m Rowan’s lawyer. That’s my job.”_

“That didn’t go as we’d hoped.” Cullen’s voice shattered the quiet.

Petrina dropped into one of the chairs near the crackling fireplace, a squashy red leather armchair that almost blended into the rug beneath it. “No,” she agreed, “but I expected him to be angry.”

“And now there’s poison in the food stores,” Cullen went on, pacing the length of space between her seat and the main doors.

“Are you going to send a raven to Josephine, tell her all is lost, that we’ve given up and surrendered to the idea of war with Ferelden?” Petrina prompted, unable to tamp her thin patience from snapping. Something about the creak of his leather boots on the stone floor irked her.

“No,” Cullen said, pausing his steps to add in a firmer tone, “no. I don’t suppose you’ve planned this far ahead.”

“You can’t ever plan for what the highborn will or won’t do,” she returned, focusing on the flames snapping past the filigreed brass grate of the fireplace. The vivid glow brought back memories of a simpler, albeit more stifling existence. She still recalled the first flicker of flame across her fingers, the heat’s pleasant sting as it lashed out. _The humiliation and shame when Rowan found you with the charred remains of Cat’s chiffon gown._

“So, you don’t have a plan.”

The mundane had been thrown aside the instant that servant waltzed into the room yelling about poison. It was an opportunity, if nothing else. Tevinter had taken over Redcliffe. During the Blight, they’d infiltrated parts of Denerim in an attempt at trafficking elves from the alienage back to Minrathous. The idea of Tevinter agents staying behind undetected in the castle wasn’t an improbable one. Perhaps they were hoping to take out the arl and king of Ferelden in one go, but someone got messy. The problem was that people from Tevinter could blend in well with Fereldans, especially elves. _Catching the culprit could help us earn the arl’s favor, if only for a while._

“Calm yourself, Templar,” she said, “I have an idea.”

“I don’t suppose it means _avoiding_ the risk to your life.”

“ _Our_ lives,” she corrected, throwing a glance at him over her shoulder, “you’re the Inquisition’s military commander. They view you as a threat, same way they perceive me.”

He flushed pink and readjusted his belt. “Very well, Herald, what’s your plan?”

“We head to the pantry through the serving passages and examine the scene,” Petrina said. She lacked her staff, but she had her magic, and he was permitted to carry a blade, provided he wasn’t stupid enough to pull it out under the watchful glares of the guards. They could find him a shield, and probably armor, further in. She stood, surveying the bookshelves on the far wall. Feeling along the edges, it took her but a moment to find the familiar hitch of a latch. One flick and the case inched open a sliver, revealing a long and darkened stairwell littered with dust and cobwebs. No one had been up this way in some time. She summoned a small orb of white light to guide their path as they descended. Once the bookcase closed behind them, they were doused in stark shadows and the muffling solace of solid stone walls. Her ears grew attuned to every sound, mostly Cullen’s erratic breathing behind her, alongside the memory of the last time she’d been in a tight spot with a Templar at her back.

 _He said I have nothing to fear._ She repeated those words in her head, an unending mantra to warn her away from incinerating him. They wandered for what seemed a lifetime before the scent of cooked bread and roasting meats hit the air. Petrina opened the next door to a broom closet. Past the broom closet, the wan illumination of sconces was almost blinding. Blinking away tears from the sudden shift in light, she found herself surveying a vast room stacked top to bottom in enough food to feed the entire countryside for months. Gut clenching, she stepped around barrels of wine and rows of flour sacks. The corpse was gone, leaving behind nothing more than a few droplets of blood seeping into the mortar between the floor’s stones.

She crouched near the drying droplets, squinting at the darkness past the barrels he’d perished next to. Metal glinted in the darkness. A twitch of her fingers pulled forth an object, the small metallic insignia of a pendant. It was a generic spike against a circle, but what caught her attention was the whiteness of the steel, the sleek work of the casting. A part of her heart sank. Tevinter. Always Tevinter. She’d seen emblems like it before, a lifetime ago in Vyrantium. “Here,” she said, handing the pendant to Cullen.

He turned it over in his hand before tossing a quizzical look at her. “What is it?”

“In Tevinter, Circles are prestigious academies. Each one has an amulet like that for its members, though only a specific class must wear that insignia. _Liberati._ ”

“I’m sorry?”

“Freed slaves, usually elves, who were admitted to the Circle, often through generous sponsorships.” Petrina never met one. Most kept their distance from her while she was in Vyrantium, and from the other mages generally.

Cullen’s gaze snapped to hers in an instant, a frown creasing his forehead. “Herald, are you thinking the Venatori…”

“The liberati could’ve been left behind,” she said, taking the pendant back.

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“I’m aware,” she clipped, pocketing the pendant. Shrieks pulsed in her ears, Ollie’s agony melding with the mages in the Hinterlands. _Will you be their_ pet _mage?_

Fabric rustled behind them. Cullen’s blade tore from its scabbard. Petrina rolled her eyes as he thrust her behind him. The figure that swept around the barrels wasn’t a Tevinter mage, though, just a young man with chestnut hair and hazel eyes. Broad-shouldered, burly enough to choke bears despite his pasty complexion making it plain that he hadn’t been outdoors much in the last couple decades of his life. When he inched into the light, Petrina recognized him. “Lord Guerrin,” she greeted, moving past Cullen with a slight nudge to his ribs. Reluctantly, the former Templar sheathed his weapon.

“I hardly have a claim to that title anymore,” Connor said.

“Yet, you didn’t come to Haven with Fiona and the others,” Petrina mused.

“She sent the best, and the rest went with Tevinter, I suppose,” Connor said, shrugging, “I’m not like them. I don’t like killing.”

“Neither do I.”

“Not how I remember you.” Skepticism swathed his features. “The rumors at the College were enough to ward me off your cause, however just it began.”

She rubbed at her nose. The entire debate was starting to exhaust her. Or maybe that was all the whiskey she downed when the Ostwick castle fell to ruin. “I didn’t join them. I never summoned demons or performed blood magic.”

“You condoned their actions.”

“I did _nothing_ of the sort.”

Connor slanted his attention toward Cullen, just a moment. “Does your Inquisition know the things you said? The things you championed?”

“Do you?” Petrina asked, struggling to keep her tone level. “Last I heard, you were a spoiled lord’s son in Ferelden, one of the luckier Circles.”

“What does that mean?”

She stepped toward him. “It means that the Templars in Ferelden didn’t touch their mages.”

At those words, what little color remained in Connor’s pasty cheeks dissipated. “Maker’s breath, you could’ve complained. They would’ve listened to you.”

“The whining youngest daughter of a bann? One who joined the Libertarian Fraternity the instant she passed her Harrowing? You jest.” Her throat trembled as she pushed back a wad of bile.

Connor cleared his throat. “Lady Trevelyan, what are you doing down here?”

“Investigating the poisoning of your servant.”

“And?”

“Tevinter might be involved.” He had a right to know, being the lord’s nephew.

“Maker’s blood,” Connor swore, hand running down his face. “It always comes back to Tevinter.”

“Yes, that it does.” Petrina folded her arms. Fire cracked from the wall sconces. “You came down here on a similar suspicion.”

“I have to do _something_ right.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think? I killed countless people when I was a boy, during the Blight.”

Sorrow fringed his hazel eyes as they bore down on her. Understanding knifed her stomach. “You were possessed. You had no choice, and you were a child, it wasn’t your fault.”

“No, but I still killed people. Pyres were built, boats were sent into the lake, and I didn’t even hang for any of it.”

“You’re not a monster, Lord Guerrin,” Petrina said, cheeks hot as she felt Cullen’s focus pinning her in place. “What happened was terrible, but that is on the demon that possessed you and took advantage of a trusting child, not you.”

“You read about it in books, but you weren’t there. You can’t understand.”

“You aren’t letting me try.”

Connor peered back at her with profound sorrow and self-loathing. In those hazel eyes, she glimpsed herself, a child threatening to smash the mirror in the female apprentices’ washroom. _“I’m not a mage! I’m not a monster!”_ He seemed like he wanted to speak, to scream, to yell, curse, kick and throw things, yet he did none of that. Instead, he turned on his heel with a reminder about the tasters not finding any more poison on the food. Dinner was being served in the main hall. Then, he was gone.

 _“We are not inferior because we’re born with magic! We are people! You must not let them beat you down! When they take your self-worth, they take all that you are, all that you can ever become,”_ she once said to a crowd of tepid junior enchanters. It was true. Once a mage accepted subjugation, her worth was gone, her chance to become _more_ than what the Chantry and Circle proscribed for her.

“What a lively fellow,” she deadpanned in his wake.

“I’m surprised he knew of you.”

“Highborn mages are rare, but we exist. Most of us know about each other. House Amell made sure the nobility remembered that it isn’t immune to magic.” When word broke of House Amell’s dissolution, Petrina’s mother had allegedly gone into a tither that led to her handmaids shutting her away for a whole week. It wasn’t until Petrina incinerated Cat’s gown that their mother’s fear manifested. Prior to that, servants and the nurse insisted that the infant girl twin at Rowan’s side had _mage eyes_ , despite them having the same features back then.

“Even so, he was here in the South.”

“I knew of him. We had books in Ostwick,” Petrina said, “the mages there were allowed to read as we wished.”

Cullen’s mouth pursed, then thinned. She deigned against demanding that he speak his mind. He would give her his opinion after dinner. Together, they loped toward the main hall. A vast supper was spread out on the long table, roasted ham, turkey, platters of ripe fruits and steamed vegetables. There were several casks of wine about too, Petrina noted, likely prepared before the stores were poisoned. Arl Teagan was all smiles for his nephew King Alistair. Beyond the men, Petrina noticed a fair-haired Orlesian woman in her forties playing with a rope of pearls around her neck. Isolde, wife of the previous arl. At her side was a young woman with Connor’s hazel eyes and chestnut hair. Another mage, Petrina recalled. Arl Eamon, while alive, had visited Connor in the Circle and every other year made the trek to his daughter’s Circle. He’d been much older than Isolde and perished before the war began.

“I hear the Inquisition has taken in the mage rebellion,” Isolde remarked with a saccharine smile.

Petrina, midway through a bite of ham, nodded with a swallow. She paused for a sip of wine to cool her racing thoughts. “Mages have the magical expertise the Inquisition seeks in sealing the Breach.” Not a lie, strictly speaking.

“What an interesting perspective.”

Gnawing at her tongue to staunch a retort, Petrina downed more ham. No one mentioned Connor’s possession or Magister Alexius’s coup. They didn’t have to, both incidents hung over the table like a mourning shroud. “What I find remarkable is that you are unmarried,” Isolde continued, peering at the younger woman through her lashes, “the Circle is gone. Surely there are suitors that could make a good match.”

 _Maker preserve me._ Petrina masked a half-snort in a forced cough. “Pardon?”

“Oh, come now,” Isolde said, Orlais warping her syllables, “even I have heard of your flirtations in Ostwick. One of them must have wanted something more…”

They did. Many of those quick trysts had wanted marriage, never with _them_ , always a cousin in Tevinter. No one wanted to marry a mage, even in the wake of the Circle’s demise. Petrina focused on slicing another shard of ham. “Tell me something, Lady Guerrin, have any of the lords and ladies of Southern Thedas sought to marry either your son or your daughter?”

Isolde blanched, pupils widening a fraction beneath the amber firelight. “No, I suppose not.” Chastened, she returned to picking at her food.

 _Indeed, I suppose not._ Movement skirted in Petrina’s periphery. She slanted a look over her shoulder. Ivory streaked past a doorway, cut in the angular hem of a Tevinter robe. Her throat shrank. When she glanced back to the table, only Cullen was watching her. The others had moved on in conversation, speaking with Alistair about whether Brynn Cousland intended to return to her homeland and where she’d gone. Petrina suspected they’d broached this subject before. “Did you see it too?” Cullen mused under his breath to her.

Jaw taut, she chanced a small nod. They’d have to be careful. Maker willing, she’d make it back to their rooms to put up some wards. Her attention trailed down the table. Alistair had his brown stare fixed on them, inquiring and suspicious. One of the minstrels struck up a chord then, and the entire main hall joined in the dancing. Petrina finished her goblet of wine before stalking out of the room after the flash of white. Cullen padded at her heels.

“Herald, we must be careful. Tevinter is a breeding ground for blood mages,” he muttered as the main hall’s noise receded at their backs.

“I’m aware, Commander.”

Up ahead, energy sizzled on the air. Petrina lurched after the familiar prickle of magic. Rounding a bend, she paused before a set of double doors. The amount of magic on the air was cotton in her ears and lead in her limbs. Placing a hand on the door handle, she brought up a barrier as she tossed one of the doors open. Power blistered as the door opened, crimson energy barreling toward her. Agonizing pain ripped up her left arm. Verdant blistered against the scarlet. Breath burst from her lungs, black fringing her vision as she hunched against the mark’s energy simmering at her forearm.

“Herald!”

 _Get a grip on it._ Forcing her attention from the aggravated mark, she peered into the room. It had been a study, once. Now, everything had been upended. An angry string of red energy spiraled in the room’s center. _Not spirals._ The marks made the familiar, angular patterns of a blood seal. At the seal’s center was the lifeless form of an elven mage in ivory, blood seeping past the white like a grotesque blossom. Petrina focused her energy with her good hand, raising it toward the seal. At her side, Cullen was mouthing hasty, hushed urges against her trying anything. _Dispel. Dispel. Dispel._ It was different from creating fire or lightning. This involved delving into the roots of her energy, the source of her power, that present stream of essence beside the blood in her veins and nullifying it. Wedging herself against the doorway, she fisted her hand as she seized the spell’s tendrils of dark energy and tore it back. As the seal shattered, red burst, and raw pain tore through her as all magic in the area broke. Her knees gave out as her own energy evaporated, white flashing behind her eyelids. Gripping the door frame, she hefted herself up from the floor. The press of cool wood at her cheek made her realize that she was soaked in sweat.

“Herald?” Cullen asked.

“The Liberati,” she wheezed, jutting her chin toward the elf’s corpse.

“Maker’s breath, I could care less about that. Are you well?”

“I’ll be fine.” A lie, and given how ashen he appeared, he probably wasn’t doing any better. _Lyrium._ As her senses returned, she caught the sugary sweet scent of blue lyrium. Beneath it was the undercurrent of stinging red, just a fraction. Perhaps he still took lyrium. Many a former Templar had to rely on lyrium to stave off the addiction’s headaches. _It’s not my business._ However, remembering her sister Elise’s terrible fits, Petrina knew those without lyrium could be volatile at the least.

Feeling was slow to return to Petrina’s legs, her magic slower. Once the familiar static in her veins resumed its flow, she inched on into the room. One quick stoop toward the elven mage revealed what she already knew, chiefly the ebony dagger hilt protruding from his back. Even without the moonlight seeping past the thick Fereldan drapes, it was plain from the shape alone that the blade was of Tevinter make. What was more troubling was that red energy, how effectively it had clashed with her mark, crippled her for a few moments. Blood magic combined with red lyrium. _None of the mages in Haven know about this mark, yet these Venatori seem to have a vague understanding of it._

 _Not them._ Ice chilled in her veins. She recalled Cullen’s words in that odd future, voice shaded in red lyrium’s echo. _The Elder One._

Forcing that thought back, she studied the seal on the floor. The markings were layered and complex, and the set she’d triggered had been the protection set. Past them were binding and summoning marks. _Demons._ The pride abomination that Ollie became had six beady black irises. As had the one that broke through the doors of Redcliffe Castle in the Elder One’s future. Both leviathans capable of slaughtering multitudes. _Shit._ Petrina ran a finger over the symbols, now blackened and charred courtesy of her dispel.

“Herald?”

“This was a final attempt at stealing Redcliffe back,” Petrina said, and she hated how hollow she sounded, “summon demons to stampede through the castle, kill the king, the arl, and then move the Venatori in.”

“Do you think there are more of these seals?”

“There could be.” Her nose scrunched as she stood. “Liberati are expendable, and Maker knows Tevinter goes nowhere without slavery.”

Cullen gestured to the hall at their backs. Long shadows rose against the walls. “We need to find them, then.”

She pressed her hands together. King Alistair and Arl Teagan were hardly looking for allies in a rogue organization that had taken up with their former insurgents. Yet, Venatori were a serious threat to stability in Redcliffe. This was Redcliffe Castle. It was the seat of the arling and part of Ferelden. As the landed nobles ruling the area, both King Alistair and Arl Teagan had a right to know about _blood_ magic being performed under their noses. Against every protest screeching in her bones, she shook her head. “We need to tell the king and arl about this.”

An exasperated sigh tore from Cullen. “Do you really think they’ll listen? Herald, they could care less about the Inquisition or these Venatori.”

“Do you have a better idea of how to build trust?” she demanded. “This is their property. They have a right to know.”

His expression curdled, not unlike a scolded child. “You’re daft if you think they’ll listen to you.”

“I have to try,” she insisted.

He muttered an incoherent insult about the highborn. A waspish retort brimmed at the tip of her tongue, withering as sound rustled around them. The creak of hinges. It struck her then that most of the bookshelves fringing the room were upright. Cullen thrust her behind him as the bookshelves opened. Venatori poured from the shadows like rats from a ship, masked faces menacing beneath the moon’s pallor. “My, my, my,” one of them purred, a man from his tone, “and here I thought the rebellion had killed you.”

“I don’t know you,” Petrina said. The shadows of his face mask and hood obscured his eye color, along with the rest of his facial features. Her time in Tevinter had been brief. Most mages there had pitied her, cast scornful looks on her whenever she materialized in the company of her guard.

“You should, Kitten, I remember you.” His hand toyed with the hem of his face cover, and when it fell, her chest constricted. Cold black eyes bore down on her, once bright with mirth in the lilting afternoon of the Vyrantium Circle. They hadn’t been close, but he’d supported her work.

 _I don’t remember his name._ “If you remember me, then you know that’s not my name.”

“Herald,” Cullen cautioned, surveying the rest of the mage’s companions.

The Tevinter just flashed a pearly grin at her, and she stifled a flinch as light lanced across sharp canines. “You’re a holy symbol now. My, how things change.” He flapped a hand toward her and Cullen. “A pity that our reunion is going to be so short, Kitten.” Nodding to his encroaching Venatori, he stepped past his soldiers toward the nearest bookshelf, “Have fun if you wish, but I want her hand as proof she’s gone. Dispose of the Templar as you see fit.” On that note, he slipped through the narrow gap in the bookshelf, letting it slam. Petrina doused herself and Cullen in a barrier as the Venatori surged toward them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a war room mission where Anora/Alistair asks you for help in the wake of Redcliffe, fearing Denerim is now infested with Venatori agents. I was like, “Yeah, but what if we could play that mission and what if it was in Redcliffe instead?” Plus, I wanted more interaction between these two. This was added in. I rather like the idea of it, though.  
> Graduated from law school. Bar studies keep me busy. 7-10 hours a day, 7 days a week, to be exact (and finals were two weeks or so ago, but after first year I wrote onto law review after finals (like a crazy person, but I got on) and it all worked out so I think I'll be good xD). I have a cushion built up (I will need to remake Petrina and play through her again because I've forgotten some things and also just miss this game). And, yeah, obviously I'm going to speak with a career counselor soon after this because ofc I didn't get the fellowship I interviewed for... whatever. Goddess willing, I'll find something. This school cares about me, unlike my undergrad institution. /Shrugs. Anyway, sorry this is late again.
> 
> Oh, also... if you save Connor in DA:Origins, Isolde has another child by Arl Eamon, a daughter, who also manifests magic. I don't know if she has a name. I make one up later on because I don't think she ever is named. If she is, I'm sorry and I also kind of don't care? Connor is really hostile to you in DA: Inquisition if you're pro-mage. xD "We are monsters." Pissed me off. I was like "I did NOT save you for you become one of these self-hating assholes." Missed opportunity for development with him, and also, how is he that buff when he was in the CIRCLE? I dunno.


	8. Blood Magic and Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped by a mysterious Venatori mage's comrades, Petrina and Cullen are forced to root out the remaining Venatori mages in Redcliffe Castle before they bring Ferelden to its knees. Somewhere along the way, Cullen starts to notice that there is more to Petrina than her unyielding stubbornness and that emotional frigidity within which she envelopes herself.

Everything turned to chaos as the Venatori charged. Cullen tried to keep an eye on Petrina, but he was constantly parrying or avoiding blows from blades, magic, and arrows. The reek of charred skin, cloth, and hair joined the sweet perfume of blue lyrium. Across the way, he glimpsed her fade-stepping past a Venatori mage’s staff blade, her gestures graceful and done to the tune of an unheard rhythm. It was nothing like the harsh, prompt way Hawke used or even the calculated movements of Amell. _It’s almost like she’s dancing._ Cullen had to force his attention back to the battle when metal glinted in his periphery, dragging up his blade to parry the massive force of a great sword. His arms buckled beneath the weight of its bearer. The man was twice his size and strength, easily. Hefting the massive blade back, the man brought it down again. Metal sparked as steel collided.

Cullen winced as the brute drew his weapon back once more. This time, Cullen feinted right, sliding his blade up under the man’s helm. Crimson poured down the brute’s breastplate as he choked and fell against Cullen’s sword. He kicked the hulking corpse aside, swiveling as motion rustled behind him. His blade brought down the rogue diving for his back.

Across the way, Petrina was a trail of orange against the sea of soldiers and mages. She could take care of herself. Metal rang in his ears as his blade met another sword. Color blurred in the corner of his vision. He realized his mistake as piercing pain rang up his side, a dagger digging into his ribs. His other assailant wailed behind him, and judging from the wash of heat, the rogue was engulfed in fire. Teeth clenching against the pain, the blood leaching through his tunic, he focused on the attacker before him, knuckles whitening against his sword hilt. He waited until the swordsman had pulled aside to weave left and wrench his blade between the Venatori’s armor plates. Once the swordsman perished, Cullen sagged against his wound, creeping further toward the shadows as the moonlight ducked past the clouds outside. Petrina caught the hint, and her flames stilled to the occasional burst of white lightning before she fade-stepped to his side. He kept a hand pressed to his wound, eventually using both as his blade slipped from his hand. Petrina crouched next to him, and he studied her shadow-swathed features. Her red lips were moving, her marked hand’s fingers flicking. It took him a moment to realize that the room was slowly fogging. “To buy us time,” she muttered before reaching for his shirt.

“What are you doing?” he prompted through his teeth.

“Checking the wound so I can heal it,” she said, “provided you don’t run me through.”

Reluctance hitched in him as he reached for the ties on his shirt. They had no choice, he knew. Maker, of all the scenarios he’d dreamed up with this occurring, she was the _last_ mage he’d envisioned healing him. His shirt was caked with blood as he helped her peel it back. She studied him a moment, gaze lingering on the scars dotting his torso. Then, those silvers darted back up to his face, searching for certainty he couldn’t give. He broke contact first, closing his eyes. The last time he’d been in this position, he’d faced a demon in Amell’s skin, promising him everything his darkest desires had lusted after in his most private moments. _She’s not a demon._

Warmth pulsed at his wound, accompanied by a slight cooling. When his eyelids opened, it was to her bent brow and gold light fluttering from her fingers, softly illuminating her features. She didn’t speak if she noticed his staring. He didn’t dare utter a word, either. In this light, devoid of her fire and her signature shackle of anger, she was a different woman. The glow made her softer, ethereal. _Beautiful._

“It will bruise,” she muttered, turning as a shadow beckoned in the mists she’d conjured. Fire spilled from her free hand toward the figure. The figure fell, twitching and shrieking as mage fire swallowed it.

“Thank you,” Cullen whispered, cheeks burning.

“We need to get out of here. Stay low and quiet. Follow my lead,” Petrina continued, retrieving his blade to hand it to him.

He sheathed his weapon before tying his shirt back up. Thus far, she hadn’t killed him or left him to die. Slow, he crept after her. She was stealthier, being smaller than him. Shadows mulled past them in the fog, none of them mages. It hit him that she’d killed all the mages, else they’d have dispelled her fog. _She’s done this before._

Up ahead, she was at the doors, nodding him ahead of her. Puzzled, he inched past her to the hall’s cool airflow. She twisted her hands, and for a moment the floor at her feet shimmered with amber flame before dimming to a dull amber glow. On that motion, she stepped after him, closing the doors behind them.

“We need to find the king and arl,” she said, swiping hair from her brow. A fresh scab was drying on her forehead. Guilt pooled in him. Cassandra wouldn’t have let that happen. Nothing frightened or deterred that woman.

“We must be careful,” Cullen said, tensing as footsteps hit his ears. They both rounded, bracing for more Venatori. Instead, they were met with the startled stares of Inquisition soldiers.

“Maker’s blood,” Petrina swore.

“Herald,” one of the soldiers gasped, rushing toward her, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said, sliding a look to Cullen.

“Secure the arl and king’s chambers,” Cullen ordered. “There’s a coup underway.”

The soldier straightened at the command, gesturing for the others to follow. There weren’t many of them, maybe ten in total. “You’ll need armor and a shield,” Petrina said, “our first stop is the armory. Maker willing, some of the knights and guards have survived.”

Cullen reached for her as she turned. His hand fell against her shoulder, and she went rigid. “Herald, you should get somewhere safe.”

She twitched out of his grasp. “There is nowhere to hide from the Venatori.”

“If you die,” he said, hand falling to his side, “demons will swallow this world and the Elder One will rule everything.”

“I won’t die,” she replied, “moreover, one could say the same of you.”

“ _I_ am not the Herald of Andraste.”

“Neither am I,” she huffed.

“That isn’t the point.”

“I know damn well what the point is,” she hissed, “and _I_ am not the one who was almost fatally wounded back there.” She glided past him, jet braid bouncing in her wake, “I’m going.”

He hurried after her. This woman was going to be the death of him. Yet, when he chanced a glance down to the blood browning on his shirt, he recalled her pragmatic willingness to heal him, to save his life. She wasn’t out to kill him. For all that she despised him, she wasn’t willing to kill him. _You would have killed her in another life. How easily you forget that._

The path to the armory was clear, the silence a roar in his ears. Nudging open the door to the armory, Cullen was stunned to find it empty. Shadow slanted over Petrina’s features. She retrieved one of the polearms near the doors, a long ebony thing tipped in a silver pike. Women in the Templars always started out with polearms, they were easier for smaller and leaner figures to wield. Once more, Cullen realized how small she was, in terms of height, in terms of muscle. Her reminder pulsed in his ears again. She was right. Sometimes the tallest and the strongest were the first to fall. _I saw that in Ferelden_ , he recollected with a wince. Focusing on the task at hand, he scoured the armory until he found a battered shield to use and a suitable breastplate. While he finished fastening the buckles on his temporary armor, Petrina touched a healing spell to the wound on her brow.

“Looks like the knights and guards are missing,” Cullen observed. “What is your plan?”

“To survive,” Petrina offered. Her knuckles were white against the polearm. “Unless you have a better idea.”

“We should try and find the knights and guards.”

“Then we go slow and quiet,” she said, “Venatori don’t take prisoners.” She swept her arm toward the armory door.

It was slow going this time, ears pricked for any sound in the death-like quiet. Her quiet steps at his back were far from comforting. Once or twice, he caught himself jumping at the slight jostle of her hair or clothing. He pushed forward, diving further into the castle. Everything had shifted in the span of that hour since they left the dinner. Not a soul was about, not even the servants. Rounding a bend in the hall, he glimpsed metallic sheen trapped beneath a moonbeam wafting through the adjacent window. One of the knights of Redcliffe, missing her head, was slumped in a mess of crimson and armor near the end of the hall. Petrina drifted past him, a hand pressed over her nose and mouth. “Recent,” she said, head tilting toward the fresh blood.

“They came through here, then,” Cullen surmised, “why?”

“There must be a way to the arl and king’s rooms from here, maybe.” She passed through the adjacent doorway. He rushed after her, cursing her impulsiveness. Past the doorway lay more corpses, guards and knights, alongside countless servants. Footsteps in the blood indicated some escaped. There weren’t any large receptacles of viscera and blood, no vast pools, no constant reek of death. It wasn’t like that fateful evening in the Fereldan tower, yet the comparisons were impossible to avoid.

Magic permeated the air, alongside the echo of blue lyrium. Thanks to his potions, his headaches weren’t that bad today, yet the familiar tingle of gooseflesh prickled his arms and the itch of cold sweat formed on his skin from the lyrium’s cloying sweetness. Sneaking glances toward Petrina, he was reminded that she’d done this before, in a future clogged with red lyrium, back at the Circle in Ostwick, on the mountains over Haven. Sometimes, she’d catch his eye and he’d turn his attention toward his boots or the walls. The memory of her magic resealing his skin and veins was stamped into the sore bruise that lay past his shirt and armor. _Why did she save me?_

She threw out an arm then, and he stumbled to avoid knocking her over. Silence settled over him, and she sucked at her teeth. “Rage demons,” she muttered, “I count two or three.” She thrust a finger toward the ajar door down the hall. The familiar sound of clashing blades hit Cullen’s ears, alongside the soft whir of bowstrings. She hefted the polearm from her back. In a blur of black and teal, she was gone. Cullen cursed as he unsheathed his blade, following her into the room. Past the doors, the room was doused in darkness beyond the wan illumination of magma-like rage demons and the flames pooling on the fingertips of Venatori mages. At the center of the fray was King Alistair, swathed in steel plate and Fereldan red, a fresh bruise purpling on his right cheek and gore dripping from his blade.

With a shield and the aid of King Alistair, Cullen found it easier to maneuver through the throngs of Venatori soldiers and rogues. Petrina was a force of nature with that polearm. With the addition of the weapon, Cullen could glimpse the detail of her movements. She moved to that unheard rhythm with lethal accuracy, slicing through the rage demons with lightning and steel. The Venatori mages weren’t trained to deal with a mage that could fight without magic.

“Impressive, Lady Trevelyan,” Alistair said when the last Venatori soldier dropped with a choked gasp. Swiping blood from his weapon on the soldier’s sleeve, Alistair looked between the former Templar and Circle mage. “I don’t suppose either of you have seen Isolde or Uncle Teagan.”

“No,” Petrina said, “though I expected you to still be dining in the hall, not down here fighting…”

“Our dinner didn’t last long,” Alistair replied as he stuffed his blade back in its scabbard. “They came from the shadows, ambushed us.”

“Venatori,” she returned, “that’s what they call themselves. They worship a new god, the Elder One.”

“Cultists. Wonderful,” Alistair chirped with a false smile.

“Forgive my boldness, Majesty, but you’re awfully light-hearted about these men and women trying to kill you.”

_Took the words from my mouth_ , Cullen thought. The king’s sarcasm now was reminiscent of his presence back in the Circle tower all those years ago, a clear contrast to Brynn’s dour severity. Alistair released a dry laugh. “When you spend enough time in a position of power, Milady, you grow accustomed to people threatening your life.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Petrina said, shouldering her polearm.

“In any case,” Alistair said to Cullen, “we need to find Arl Teagan and Isolde.”

Unease slithered through Cullen as he drank in the king’s relentless brown stare. While he was a jovial man, there was a distinct shade of strategy past Alistair’s unending mirth. “You should get somewhere safe,” Petrina cut in, voice edged with the faintest hint of irritation. “They are after you…”

“Lady Trevelyan, I was trained as a Templar and served my time in the Wardens well. I know how to fight, and I have kept up with regular exercise since becoming king,” Alistair replied.

Cullen veiled a smirk at the color pooling in Petrina’s cheeks. Just a smidge of frustration. She didn’t snap. “You are the king of Ferelden, and currently you are the only sitting monarch.”

“And _you_ are the Herald of Andraste, not to mention the daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick,” Alistair said, “I can’t imagine many banns let their daughters run about with former Templars to kill Tevinter cultists.”

Those words hit a nerve with her. She stiffened. “Trust me,” she said, “my mother is far from _concerned_ about my wellbeing.”

_Say something._ Cullen coughed. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, the Herald is right. You should head back to your rooms. The path is clear, and our soldiers will see to your safety.”

Alistair tore his attention from the mage. “I fought more than my share of blood mages in the Blight at Brynn’s side. They didn’t frighten me then, and they don’t frighten me now.”

The resolve in his words signaled that it was futile to try changing his mind. Cullen traded one look with Petrina. Exasperation smothered her features, yet she didn’t rail against Alistair the way she did against Cullen. In silent surrender, Petrina led the men after her down the hall toward the arl’s rooms. “Never thought I’d see _you_ in the company of a mage,” Alistair muttered under his breath, “Sister Nightingale wrote to tell me that you were with the Inquisition and I almost didn’t believe her.”

_He remembers._ Cullen’s focus darted from Petrina back toward the king. “Things have changed.”

“So I gathered.”

The trio moved on up past the main floor without issue. On nearing the landing, air whispered. Cullen threw out his arm over Petrina, sweeping her back as an arrow whistled past them. She jerked out of his grasp as the arrow fell limply on the steps behind them. “Thank you, though I did _hear_ that bowstring,” she said, and despite the venom on the end of that sentence he swore he caught a hint of sarcasm in her tone. Dry, listless sarcasm, the sort of humor Cassandra preferred.

Cullen bit his tongue to hold back a trite “you’re welcome.” Leliana would have been proud. Cassandra was never one to beam, but even she would have cracked the faintest hint of a smile at Cullen’s temperance. _Two steps forward, ten steps back._ There was little time to dwell on his personal setbacks, though. More Venatori awaited in the halls ahead of them, unwary archers that fell to a lash of amber mage fire. Neither Cullen nor Alistair had time to unsheathe their blades before Petrina took out the archers. Cullen couldn’t help but be drawn to Petrina, to the pity and regret twisting her expression as the Tevinter soldiers writhed and shrieked against her flames.

_A stark contrast to the woman I met on the mountain over Haven._ “Well, _that_ is one way to handle them,” Alistair chortled.

“Your uncle’s rooms aren’t far, I trust,” Petrina said, flexing the fingers of her marked hand. Green reverberated across her digits.

“They should be just ahead.”

Alistair led this time. Cullen fell instep at Petrina’s side. “How is your mark?” he muttered.

“Should I die, I’ll be sure to gift the hand to the Inquisition to seal the Breach,” Petrina assured him.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed. _You know very well what I meant._ “Does it pain you?”

“You’ll know when it does.”

Remembering how short and fast her breaths were hours earlier, how pale she’d grown, the way she hunched against her crackling and spitting hand, Cullen made a mental note to speak with Solas before they sealed the Breach. There was something unsettling about the purported Herald of Andraste hissing in pain as her hand flared peridot. He’d known about the mark glowing in Haven, if only from the ravens Cassandra and Leliana kept sending. Knowing about something was different from witnessing it. Seeing the woman who had hated him from the moment they met contort with agony was a troubling notion that wouldn’t leave Cullen’s thoughts any time soon. _You hated her kind far more than she ever could hate you._ There wasn’t any falsity to those words, either. He’d had the power to make mages’ lives miserable in Ferelden and then Kirkwall. While much of it was an incoherent blur, snatches of it rang with crystalline clarity. He knew, deep in his bones, that he’d followed through on his vendetta against mages with a force at least equal to that they wreaked upon Kirkwall itself during their revolt.

_“My own knight-captain, corrupted by blood magic.”_ A shriek tore Cullen from his past. Alistair had halted in his tracks up ahead, and Petrina followed suit. One of the Venatori mages emerged, a knife pressed firmly to Isolde’s throat as she gawked, wide-eyed at the trio ahead of her.

“One wrong move,” the Venatori mage sneered, “and the Fade opens wide…”

Fingers snapped down the hall, shattering the quiet. Isolde dropped to her knees as her captor was hefted high, held there by an unseen force. His knife fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Connor emerged from around a bend in the hall, accompanied by his sister who promptly picked up the knife and slid it into her belt. “Told you entropy is _still_ useful,” she taunted her sibling.

Connor rolled his eyes, focus sliding toward the trio standing before the captive Venatori mage. “Any word of Uncle Teagan?” he asked, helping his mother to her feet.

“None,” Isolde replied, rubbing at her throat.

“You didn’t see him?” Alistair asked.

“Not since they ambushed us. The Vints must have dragged him away somewhere.”

“Maker’s blood,” Alistair swore. He looked between Isolde’s children. “Get your mother somewhere safe.”

“We could help,” the sister protested.

“No, Alix,” Alistair finalized, “you need to keep her safe, and right now you are possibly the only two in the castle that can.”

Alix simmered with glaring resentment but didn’t voice her objections. She tore off on her heel, Isolde trailing behind. Connor tossed a look over his shoulder, locking stares with Petrina. They traded nods before he trudged after his mother and sister. “If it’s demons they’re after,” Petrina mused, “the highest point on the castle might be the best place to summon them, so that those creatures can then filter through the rest of the castle.”

Ice ran through Cullen’s veins. The mages in Ferelden, those loyal to Uldred, had a similar idea. It had been quite an efficient tactic.

Alistair, squinting up at the floating Venatori, tilted his head. “How long do you think these types of spells last?”

“Long enough,” Petrina assured him, “the highest point in the castle, where is it?” Tension curdled her words.

_She’s been here before._ The Circle of Magi at Ostwick wasn’t kept in a tower like the one in Ferelden. It resided in a castle. Many a Templar wanted to be posted there, if only for the sea air and rolling green hills past the shores. “The tower furthest from the gates,” Alistair responded, his words thick in Cullen’s fogged ears.

“Take us there, _now_ ,” Petrina ordered.

With luck, they would get there before the Venatori sacrificed Arl Teagan. Alistair grasped the implications, jogging down a labyrinth of halls and up a maze of staircases. Petrina was at his side, her face swathed in rigid determination. Cullen kept pace with them. Up ahead, the last of the Venatori were barricaded in pockets of space, the bulk of them mages. Petrina blew threw them in a blaze of fire, her irises more gold than silver against the flames’ illumination. Her mouth was a firm scarlet line as she stepped over blackened corpses and twitching bodies. _Firestarter, that’s what Varric calls her_ , Cullen realized as his hand fell from his blade hilt for the umpteenth time. It wasn’t all for show. She was merciless with her spells, yet she didn’t move like the ruthless shadows of mages in the Fereldan tower. No, she moved with purpose and resolve.

_This is why people follow her._ He’d seen their devotion in the barracks, even the skeptics were devoted to her. Most of them had seemed like political ideologues seeking to advance their agenda, but their loyalty to her was impeccable. Now, faced with her awash in ash and smoke, a bloodied polearm in her grip, it hit Cullen. The people at Haven weren’t simply ideologues or skeptics seeking a smug victory. They believed in her because she was determined in her goals. _Not just determined, driven._

Power thrummed as the trio neared the ephemeral highest point in Redcliffe Castle. Static wafted through Cullen’s hair. From the pull of her mouth, Petrina felt it too. They moved quicker, cleaving through the last of the Venatori infiltration toward a set of arched double doors. Alistair didn’t bother trying the doors. A shove of Petrina’s fist sent a burst of raw force against the doors. Wood splintered as they fell open.

Past the doors was a staircase yawning up into a chilled night topped in a black sky. Petrina led the trek up the stairs. Out on the top of a tall tower, the lead Venatori mage from earlier stood at the center of a series of markings hewn in blood. Black eyes migrated toward her and the men at her back. “Kitten.” A wicked grin wound over his pasty face. “Do you remember me now?”

Cullen scanned the area. Arl Teagan lay some distance from the blood seal, slumped against one of the tower’s parapets. Beneath the dim moon and starlight, his shoulders evoked a faint movement. He was alive, for now.

“The youngest of seven,” Petrina called out, and the tremor in her voice was audible to none but Cullen. Probably because he’d experienced true confidence and bravado from her many times. “As I recall, you were destined for a life as a healer with the Northern Chantry.”

“I was destined for greatness!” the Venatori thundered, lifting his hands skyward. Lightning listed against his open palms. “We _all_ are! You Southern mages grovel and play whore to the Templars down here, but _we_ could be so much more than that!”

“We didn’t _grovel_ ,” she snapped, “we compromised!”

A nudge to his arm drew Cullen’s focus toward Alistair. Inquiring, the king inclined toward his uncle. Cullen offered his assent with a slight nod. “ _Compromise_ , what did it get you, Kitten?” the Venatori asked. His comrades were inching closer to him now, what few of them remained. “You were stripped of your titles when you were taken to the Circle, as a _child_ might I add, of your inheritance, your _right_ to bear children. You were reduced to a tool of the Chantry.”

“They couldn’t break our wills.”

“In Kirkwall, they did much worse than that. Isn’t that right?” the Venatori asked, razors edging the grin he raised toward Cullen.

Tranquility was a fact of life in the Gallows. Dissenting voices learned to mute themselves. Speaking out soon enough became a guarantee of Tranquility, regardless of passing a Harrowing ritual. Cullen never wielded the brand. As Knight-Captain, he was above menial tasks such as those. Oh, but he witnessed mages hauled screaming and kicking from the Gallows to their ultimate demise. “I’m not joining you,” Petrina continued. Past her, Alistair was helping a delirious Arl Teagan to his feet.

“A pity.” The Venatori reached into the folds of his robe. Metal glinted against pale light as he produced the slender form of an athame. “I had hoped we could be friends, Kitten.”

She rotated her polearm. Cullen unsheathed his blade, lifted his shield as he stepped toward her. The mage didn’t attack them. Rather, he drew that blade across his palm. Scarlet stung the air and verdant screeched in response at Petrina’s arm, but she didn’t yield to it. Magic twisted on the night’s wind. Alistair scrambled with Arl Teagan in the ensuing chaos, rushing past Cullen and Petrina down the stairs. The Venatori mage was enveloped in red light, twisting and mutating. Two eyes became six. A lean physique grew bulky, robes shredding beneath hardened, grey spiked limbs. The monstrous form of a pride demon loomed over the former Circle mage and Templar.

The lingering Venatori, fringing the abomination, were twisted into the hooded figures of shades. Petrina’s hand shook as it gripped her polearm. Cullen brought up his shield as the shades lurched toward him. Standing firm against their weight pressing at his shield, his blade found its way to whatever counted as their hearts. Each shade dissolved into black and green shards. Ground trembled around him as the pride abomination strode closer. He brought up his shield as the beast swung for him. A tickle of warmth at his back accompanied the stinging sweetness of blue lyrium. He managed to swerve in time to witness a massive ball of black-orange flame engulf the abomination. It pealed with laughter as the flames washed over it.

For the briefest of moments, Petrina’s mouth hung agape. Then, the beast’s laughter turned to agonized howls. The flames didn’t die. Frantic, the abomination began swatting massive hands against its arms. Breathless, Petrina chuckled as her inferno deepened over the beast. The creature shrieked. “Mercy, Kitten!” a garbled voice begged.

With a sugar-coated smile, she called back something in Tevinter. The flames snapped onward against the abomination’s hardened hide. It flailed and cried out, but nothing helped.

The abomination wailed as it shattered to black and green shards. Blackened stone was the sole remnant of the Venatori presence atop the tower. In the wake of its death, all was hushed and calm. Steel clattered against stone as the polearm fell from Petrina’s hand. Cullen swept the blood from his blade before sheathing it, watching her.

Hands pressed to her knees, she lingered a moment where the abomination had been, back hunched, breathing hard. It was a second before he caught the first hiccup of a sob, followed soon by a sniffle. When he strode closer, he noticed a faint shimmer on her cheek. “Herald, we shouldn’t linger here…”

“Lead on, Commander,” she said, voice a hoarse croak, thumb dashing at her cheeks.

Quelling his rampant curiosity, he trudged after her. Down in the castle, the remaining guards and knights were cleaning up and scouring for more Venatori. Arl Teagan was at the fore of it all, Isolde, Alix, and Connor hovering nearby. Alistair was gone, likely shuttled off to his rooms courtesy of his personal guard. Inquisition soldiers lingered at the doorways. Ashen, Petrina stepped into the main hall’s hush. Her spine tensed as her eyes met Arl Teagan’s. “I believe your Venatori problem has been resolved,” she managed with just a lisp of her remaining hoarseness.

Arl Teagan gave a meek response about dealing with the matter further when the sun rose. Given that the guards were still sweeping the castle, Cullen agreed with the decision. Petrina, swiping at ash on her cheek, trudged off to their rooms ahead of him. Inquisition soldiers traipsed after the duo. Knowing how efficient they were, Cullen suspected someone had sent letters to Haven already, one for Josephine and the other for Leliana. Part of him was dreading the return to Haven. Another part of him, the sensible half of his brain, was concerned that he wouldn’t get that far.

On return to their rooms, Petrina mutely strode to her rooms. The slam of the door echoing through the vacant space was the sole sound in their immediate area. Cullen laid his _borrowed_ shield down near the door and slung his sword over the back of a chair near the fire. While he hadn’t expected an emotional monologue, her persistent stiffness toward him was exhausting. Considering that they’d both walked out of an attempted coup, he’d hoped for _something_ akin to camaraderie. At least a _semblance_ of tolerance, a recognition that they were united in this struggle for peace and order.

Head swaying, he headed toward his own rooms for a quick wash and change of clothes. When he emerged from the bath, he glimpsed a flash of his torso in the looking glass. A purple bruise was fringed in yellow, skimming the etchings of a white scar against his abdomen. He remembered that scar in a haze of blood, bone, lust, and anger. His fingers danced over the new marking, brushing past smooth skin stitched shut via magic. The same thing he’d once shunned as some twisted, monstrous creation of a being other than the Maker.

In the back of his head, moonlight slashed over Kirkwall’s Gallows as Dahlia Hawke and Meredith Stannard exchanged finalizing glares. The apostate hero of Kirkwall and the Chantry zealot. _“You don’t frighten me, Knight-Commander. And, Maker as my witness, you can’t cage us any longer. Stand down before you bring the city to ruin,”_ Hawke urged, weariness edging the harshness of her words.

_“I tolerated your apostasy, but if you join these blood mages, you will share in their fates,”_ Meredith snarled then, all traces of compassion evaporating in her lethal blue eyes.

_“As will you,”_ Dahlia said, white-knuckling her halberd. She thrust the staff skyward. _“Mages, with me!”_

The streets ran with blood and fire, demons pouring out of the shadows, smoke billowing against a star-spattered sky. Cullen pressed his hands to his face. _It’s done._ He reached for his clean clothing. For all her talk, Petrina could’ve left him to die in the chaos that swept through Redcliffe Castle. He couldn’t imagine why she’d healed him. The Inquisition would’ve been none the wiser if she left him there on the floor to die. Yet, she saved him. _Why?_

Running a comb through his curls, he stalked back toward the sitting room. He paused in the doorway, tucking the comb into his pocket. She was perched near the fire, the lashing amber casting odd shadows against her form, spinning at her signet ring. Pushing down a lump in his throat, he forced his tired voice to speak, “Herald, I wanted to thank you for what you did back there.” _Saving my life._

Her gaze slanted toward him. Against her ever-present suspicion, he glimpsed doubt. No fear, which was both a relief and a worry. “How is your injury?” she asked.

“It will heal.”

“I’m no spirit healer,” she returned, scowling into the fire. “I don’t have the patience for it.”

“Herald, I’m alive.”

“Yes, you are,” she supposed, expression relaxing a fraction.

_Something is wrong._ He didn’t dare push her. Maker knew her patience was paper-thin. _Not paper-thin, explosive_ , he corrected. So, he waited for what seemed like hours in that doorway while she searched the fire for answers. “Tell me, Commander, do you think mages are monsters?”

“No, of course not.” He spoke as if she’d asked him what color the sky was, not that it made any difference. She stiffened, rubbing her hands together. For a moment, he wondered if this time she was going to set him ablaze, as she’d done with those Venatori and their demons.

“Truly? I spent my life in the Circle railing against its confines, and even I have to wonder sometimes.” She locked her fingers together.

His throat ran dry as those piercing silvers swiveled toward him. She could see through him. Every former Circle mage could. It was how they’d survived a war, and before that, their Circles. “Herald, I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous. Anyone who forgets that gets burned.” Those last few sentences evoked bitter laughter from her. “Perhaps demons will turn me into an abomination before we seal the Breach.”

If this was her attempt at goading him into an argument, he wouldn’t give it to her. Besides, she wasn’t a monster. She fought for what she believed in, but she didn’t kill for the sake of outright cruelty. “You know that won’t happen.”

“Do I?” she challenged, face swinging toward him. Masked in firelight and shadow, her features were wild and awash in fear. Unshed tears glinted past her hardened façade.

_I believe you called her “cold for a fire mage,”_ Cullen’s thoughts taunted. Flame snapped and lashed against blackened logs in the fireplace. Behind his eyelids, he saw her again, fringed in mage fire, surging toward a cabal of Venatori mages. Yet, he also remembered the deftness with which she’d addressed Connor down in the cellars. She told him that he wasn’t a monster, soothed his lingering worries that were over ten years old.

_She’s not a monster._

Fabric rustled as she shifted back toward the fire. Petrina released a shuddering exhale. “You said I had nothing to fear from you, Commander. Tell me, what would you do if I was possessed?”

_Not this question._ Cullen straightened his back. Against the stifling discomfort running through his veins, he fixed his attention on her. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Felicity Amell’s red lashes had fluttered once after she went under for her Harrowing ritual, her brow creasing as she traversed the Fade, her limbs sometimes twitching. He’d held his breath, hand at the hilt of his blade. In that moment, he’d been prepared to end her life. _I’m not a Templar anymore._

More than that, looking at Petrina, he didn’t see the creatures that spurred his fear of magic after Ferelden and Kirkwall. Rather, he saw someone as uncertain and afraid as him. “It’s more complicated than you know, Herald.”

“You’d run me through, no doubt.”

He’d dreamt of her, broken and bruised, in the Kirkwall Gallows. Recalling the venom in her voice there, he rolled his lips together. Past that dream, he drifted back to their recent battle with the Venatori, how readily she moved into battle, dodging arrows and blades to put her foes to the flame. How the light wreathed her features as she healed a gaping wound in his side. “No,” he managed, a whisper, “I don’t think I could.”

That conversation replayed in Cullen’s head long after he laid down to sleep. Petrina hadn’t graced him with a response. He spent most of that night tossing and turning, wondering if there was something he could’ve done or said to reassure her, put her fears to rest. When he woke, it was to a cool autumn breeze wafting past thin walls and cracked mortar. Dressing, he headed out to the sitting room. Daylight slashing into the area cast long, cerulean forms against the walls. Crisp white paper stuck out against the gloom. Someone had left a sheet of parchment on the mantle. He plucked the paper from its perch. Neat, practiced handwriting filled the page:

_Commander,_

_I wanted to thank you for your willingness to speak with me last night. I can’t forgive the Templars for what they did to me and my people, my family, but I don’t want you as my enemy. If you are willing to try working together for a better, fairer future, then so am I._

_Yours,_

_Petrina E. Trevelyan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I legitimately work on my fic around 8 pm (when I stop studying from about a start time of 10am-12pm) until 10 or 11, and I'm then in bed by 12 and no one cares but me. I care because I am losing my MIND! /Wild laughter. Amell is not my Warden, she's just a non-canon Origins OC I really like. I don't have anymore (I swear). I just got attached to her and I played her for some of Anders' dialogue in DA II... but I think I still have to beat that DLC with her? Maybe? Who knows!? Not me.
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to give SOME character development. That was the purpose of this frolic and a detour (I studied tort law this week, y'all, not that any one knows that... or should know it... xD except me and the rest of my colleagues, obviously xD) from the Breach thing. I also dislike, though understand, the pacing of the quest in the original game. I just wanted more dialogue with Cullen as a mage Trevelyan, to be frank, because my family talks NOTHING out! NOTHING! And I think that's a bad idea. I know that's a bad idea because my personal issues explode either in me lashing out with shouts or random tears that I can't control (and that's a whole other bucket of bullshit). I like the idea of Cullen being more complex than he's portrayed in-game because yes, I am a lot like him. I once had awful beliefs about things that were not true at all, but I held fast to them because my religion and the authority figures in my life said they were correct. I'm also very... I don't know... shy and nervous like he is around certain people. I come across as cold sometimes (I can't fix it, I've tried). I can hold onto a grudge, and I remember slights against me. Maybe that's why it is sometimes hard for me to get into that headspace? I can't remember how I was when I came out of my religious brainwashing and also my political brainwashing and started thinking for myself... just that I did it. I'm trying, though. :'D


	9. The Maelstrom Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a skirmish with Venatori seeking to kill King Alistair and Arl Teagan in Redcliffe, Petrina and Cullen are forced to reconcile with inconvenient truths. For Petrina, those truths are prodding at the crux of her beliefs about Templars and magic, the impact the Chantry had on her family. She returns to Haven clouded with uncertainty and doubt, particularly since Cullen has, at every turn, flouted her expectations.

Something had changed in Arl Teagan after last night’s escapades with the Venatori. Petrina wasn’t sure what to make of things when she descended from her rooms that morning to find him observing her with something other than suspicion. There was a hint of admiration burrowed in those battle-worn eyes. Even King Alistair seemed a tad friendlier, though he’d fought at her side. “Lady Herald,” the king greeted, “we wished to thank you for your efforts on our behalf. You fought admirably for a land and a people you know little about and have no reason to care for, something that is all too rare these days.”

 _Does this mean you will leave us alone?_ She started as that thought crossed her mind. Since when was she a part of this Inquisition? _Now, probably_ , her thoughts retorted in their usual singsong taunt. “Indeed,” Arl Teagan said, “for now, Redcliffe will tolerate Inquisition presence in our lands and at our borders, provided our efforts to aid in the peacekeeping are welcomed.”

“As long as you don't interrupt our internal chain of command, I see no reason why Commander Cullen would object,” Petrina returned.

“Ferelden will yield to the arling’s judgment on this matter,” Alistair said.

The scratch of a pen on parchment alerted Petrina to the scribe tirelessly writing in Alistair’s shadow, brow bent, mouth pulled downward. “For now, the Inquisition may operate within our lands as long as they do so lawfully and cooperate with our knights and soldiers as needed,” Arl Teagan went on.

“The Inquisition thanks you for your kindness, Milord,” Petrina said with a prim bow. She gave a curt kneel for Alistair. “And yours, Majesty.”

Behind them, the court was filing into the main hall for breakfast. The scent of roasted ham and wine wafted through the air. Connor even chanced a wan smile in Petrina’s direction as she approached to take her seat. “I’m glad to see you well, Milady,” he greeted.

“You seem to be feeling better, Milord.”

“It helps that there’s no longer a menacing cabal of Venatori lurking about.”

She chuckled, swiping a lock of hair behind her ear. “Fair enough.” Lyrium slithered into the area then, eviscerating her desire for more conversation. It was just a hint with Cullen, but she always caught an undercurrent of lyrium whenever he neared. With Templars, the scent clung to them. Maybe she was more attuned to it in them from her years of dreading their wandering hands and eyes.

 _He’s not like the ones at Ostwick._ To hear anyone tell it, he’d been _worse_ than the ones at Ostwick. She knew the stories of sexual and physical abuse in Kirkwall, the rampant misuse of the Rite of Tranquility, and the Chantry’s refusal to intervene. And, while she recalled his name as being a Knight-Captain in Kirkwall, she doubted that he was the same man he’d been then. Any Templar would’ve run her through for her _rampant_ and _undisciplined_ use of magic last night. _But not him._

“I take it things went well.” Those uncertain brown eyes found hers as he joined her on the trek to their seats at the table.

“Provided we don’t provoke Redcliffe forces in the area, we’re permitted to continue our operations in the Hinterlands,” she said.

Cullen’s blonde brows shifted from their usual crease, inching up his forehead. “You’re sure?”

“I _did_ say there was an opportunity here,” she remarked, sitting at his side.

He didn’t grace her with a response. Rather, he reached for a slice of ham. Pain slashed at her left palm. She buried the marked hand in her pocket, forcing a smile as Lady Isolde materialized across the table. It was a brief flare up that soon dulled, but Petrina recalled too well the stinging pain of yesterday. Not since she’d woken from the Conclave had the mark been that angry. Her gut churned. Solas promised a lot of things, but he was an apostate. His knowledge only reached so far. Grand Enchanter Fiona had trained in the finest Circles in Southern Thedas. She’d know more about the mark, provided she was willing to share that knowledge with the Inquisition.

“Is your mark bothering you?” Cullen whispered.

“Not now,” she said. _How long do I have?_ Against the rampant thuds of her heart, she forced herself to finish her food. Rowan’s laughter swelled against the tide of dark memories that shrouded her family’s vast estates.

 _“Sister, if you keep worrying the way you do, you’ll turn grey before you’re forty,”_ he used to say with a glint in his eye, often with a hand loosely draped around the stem of a wine glass. Back then, her worries revolved around the Chantry and its pet Templars. Now, things were far worse. He didn’t know the half of it. Her letters were sugar-coated lies dusted in segments of truth she handpicked. _Most of them insults about Commander Cullen_.

Breakfast ended with little ceremony or conversation, not that Petrina blamed anyone for their silence. She found herself almost enjoying the quiet as a reprieve from last night’s violence. However, she didn’t truly grasp relief until a page delivered a copy of the agreement she struck with Arl Teagan and King Alistair to her rooms. Tucking the paper into her bag, she vowed to hand it right to Josephine upon their triumphant return to Haven. This was a victory, albeit a small one, for the Inquisition. Perhaps this would soothe individual fears about her being the supposed Herald of Andraste.

 _They won’t send an army to Haven to kill me, at least._ Green sizzled against fair skin as Petrina tied off her bag. Flexing her fingers, she swallowed hard. Ivory daylight joined the verdant simmering past her pallor. Towers of shadow swelled in the divots between her fingers. The clap of a door in its jamb evoked a flinch from her. Fast, she tucked her marked hand into her pocket as the green waned. Cullen was in the doorway.

“Herald, the soldiers are ready to depart,” he said, brown eyes tender as they migrated to her concealed hand. In the back of her head, Ollie was reaching for her hand beneath their desks for the first time. Throat bobbing, she forced a nod. _Why do you look at me like that?_

“Have the servants retrieve my things,” she said. Together, they loped down the hall. She kept stride with him, cheeks hot as she recalled that awful conversation the other night. It made her feel weak, like one of the flower-picking fools she’d known in Ostwick. The poor girls that never made it far at court and wore their hearts on their sleeves in the Circle. _It’s not weak to show emotion, Petra._ Not unless one did so in front of a Templar. That was a death sentence.

_He’s not a Templar anymore._

Doubt flooded her. _“I don’t think I could.”_ The softness with which he’d spoken those words made his promise that she had “nothing to fear” somewhat more believable. From the scars on his chest she’d glimpsed the other night while healing him, she gathered that their injuries from the Circle were similar. A latticework of fine white lines spanned her lower back from where she’d taken lashes for her apprentices. It was different, and yet both sets of markings resulted from the Circle.

 _Blood stung the air before blurring to frost, flame, and lightning. I ran. Demons burst from the shadows._ She exhaled, sharp and low. All her life, she’d fought for mages to be free from the Circle. _The Circle didn’t protect us, and it didn’t protect anyone from the worst of us._ Understanding settled in her stomach, cold and hard as the lakebed of her family’s lands. _The Templars are still necessary._ Not as the Aequitarians and Loyalists wanted, though.

“Herald?”

She fought a curse at the moniker everyone seemed to think of as her name. “I was thinking about things,” she backlashed, knowing too well it lacked her signature irritation with him. That was the worst part of interacting with him, not knowing where she stood with him. This time, the attempt at a truce had come from her hand. Part of her wondered what she was thinking, offering to parley with a former Templar. Yet, Cassandra hadn’t been wrong when she’d railed at the pair the other day. They needed to find a way to collaborate, for the sake of Southern Thedas.

 _“I don’t think I could.”_ Petrina massaged a small circle against her temple. Those words would never leave her, and worse, nor would the tenderness with which Cullen had uttered them. Not because she thought him a liar, but because the sincerity he wielded was far more potent than any spell or purge. That was a rare thing. Templars weren’t taught to express their emotions, not around mages, not in the Circles.

 _He’s genuine. Does it frighten you? Does it make you wonder if_ you _are in the wrong?_ Guilt nettled her as she boarded the carriage ahead of him against the mid-morning glow. He followed, no less stiff than before, though she chalked that up to his healing injury. “I should look at your side again when we return to Haven,” she said, shattering the fragile quiet between them.

“If you wish, Herald.”

“To be sure it’s healing properly,” she replied, then with a wash of hot shame, “maybe have an _actual_ healer examine things.”

“The wound has bruised, as you promised,” he said, “I assume the pain has to do with that.”

“It might.” _Or, I could’ve fused your liver to your intestines._

Cullen’s expression fell. Pressing a fist to his lips, he trembled with a breath. “I’m more concerned for you, to be frank. The mark has been acting up more than usual. Are you sure it’s stable enough to attempt sealing the Breach?”

“Fiona will tell us.” Possibly, assuming the Grand Enchanter knew more of the Fade than a self-proclaimed expert.

That answer didn’t soothe Cullen’s persistent worries. Instead, his brows delved deeper over his nose. While he offered his assent in a grunted “very well,” it was plain that he didn’t agree with Petrina’s assessment. If she was honest, she had no idea how to deal with this sort of magic. The Fade was far from her usual area of study. Fire and dragons, that was the bulk of her magical expertise.

 _“Fire and explosions are well and good, Apprentice, but they will not protect you from magic in the Fade. Bring up your barriers again,”_ Lydia ordered one sweltering summer afternoon in Ostwick. _You’re not a healer, but you saved the commander’s hide_. Tugging at her signet ring, Petrina quelled a beckoning string of curses. _And you also didn’t explain a thing about that Venatori mage with the awful nickname for you._

Whatever his faults, Cullen had yet to kill her or purge her. _Why did you save him if you hate him so?_ She hadn’t any choice. The Inquisition would’ve executed her if she returned to Haven without him. But, worse than that, he was a decent man beneath all that armor and that ridiculous shield. _Then talk to him._

Against the jostle of wheels on rutted roads and the thud of hoofbeats, Petrina cleared her throat. “Commander, you never asked me about the Venatori leader.”

“I figured you would relay that information in a report, Herald.”

“You should know anyway.” She set her jaw, focusing on the glint of sunlight dancing across her ring. _Tell him. He won’t murder you._ “In Vyrantium,” she began, voice trembling, “I had access to resources I couldn’t imagine here in the South. My work was greater for my time there, but it was not easy. No one spoke to the Southern visitor, not even the Liberati. But for my Templar overlords and ladies, I was alone.” Harsh recollections tinted in tropical heat and branded with cultural difference surged through her head. Parlors cloaked in blue smoke, coy laughter drifting down pale halls, the clack of heeled boots on stone floors. Arrogant comments hidden behind cupped hands and impish pranks that turned to severe setbacks. The worst the mages in Tevinter had done was rip pages from her books, hide them in places she couldn’t access, in one extreme case, they burned her notes. She’d lost a month of work.

Twirling her ring, she continued, “Everyone found it pointless and borderline blasphemous to study the pre-Chantry Tevinter. At best, they mocked me. At worse, they threatened to report me to their male Divine. One of them found my work interesting. I don’t know his name, anymore, but I know he was the youngest of seven children and back then he was kinder. It was why they recommended him as a Chantry healer.” She _thought_ he’d been kind. So much of that time was a blur now. He took an interest in her research, retrieved books from restricted areas of the library, greeted her each time she returned from an outing. She’d maintained distance, refusing to let herself fall for a Tevinter. Sense dictated that she keep her private urges to herself, a precaution she cherished now. Maker knew she didn’t need _more_ regrets.

Cullen was peering at her when she made the visual trek up toward his face, though not with his usual skepticism. Patience broiled in that gaze. Her stomach flipped. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Even as his lips pursed to ask her a simple question: “Why are you telling me this?”

“You should know,” she whispered, gnawing at the inside of her cheek. Even if he didn’t hear it from her, one of Leliana’s agents or Josephine’s spies would produce the information. _They_ could probably get the Venatori’s name.

This time, Cullen didn’t press Petrina for answers. She half-expected him to launch a separate inquisition over this, press her for information, but instead he offered her a half-nod as he spoke, “Thank you, Herald, for telling me.”

Her throat shrank at the warmth that swathed his face. Like most Fereldans, his features were harsh absent a smile. The scar at the corner of his mouth and reek of lyrium made him sterner than most. _“Make this time count,”_ he’d said, red lyrium shadowing his words. _Even in that dark place, he died for me._ He believed in her, regardless of whether she was divinely sent. _To the point that he was willing to die for you._ _Perhaps he’s telling the truth._

“I, um, I meant what I wrote in that note I left you,” she said, cheeks scalding as she ducked her lashes. “Although I know I haven’t been entirely fair to you.”

“Certain things are hard to unlearn, Herald, I understand.”

“It’s more than that,” she continued. The Trevelyan owl’s beady, microscopic eyes were boring a hole into her own, forcing her attention back toward him. “The Templars took me from my family and my birthright, but they also got my sister Elise addicted to lyrium and drove my idiotic brother Harry to fanaticism.” Tongue raking over her upper lip, she ran her fingers through her hair. “Ser Wendell was one of many pigs in the Order that I burned without pity or remorse, but that’s not all of it. The Order did my siblings no favors. It exploited and broke them.” _We don’t even know if Harry’s alive._ In the cobwebbed depths of her darkest thoughts, she wondered if that wasn’t for the best. The Templars in Val Royeaux, those that revolted from the Chantry, had been addled with anger, enough to knock a cleric from her feet with a gauntleted fist.

Cullen had his fingers pressed to his lips, thoughts warring against an inscrutable mask. Compassion lay there in the maelstrom, melding with understanding. “You know I was in Kirkwall and Ferelden. That sort of thing made me angry and bitter for years, until that night at the Gallows.”

“I read about it.” Every mage had breathed the name “Hawke” back in those days, often with a reverent pause attached. No one spoke of Cullen, though all knew of Knight-Commander Meredith’s former toady. “I still can’t believe you disobeyed her orders. By all accounts, you were always at her beck and call,” Petrina persisted, thumb flicking at her ring.

The corners of his scarred mouth tilted upward. “I looked Hawke in the eye, and past her I saw all the mages trapped in the Gallows by virtue of their birth.” Shaking, callused hands curled together in his lap, twisting into a white-knuckled clasp. “I saw their thin faces and wide eyes, the distrust in those glares, but also the fear. It was then that I understood that we weren’t their protectors at all, that somehow Knight-Commander Meredith had turned us into villains.”

 _Maker preserve me, he’s serious, isn’t he?_ A weight pressed at Petrina’s tongue. _He didn’t know. How could he? “Petra, most of them don’t know,”_ Elise had uttered in the shaded quietude of their family estate’s lavish parlor one morning, _“that they have done anything wrong. In some cases, they’ve been hurt by magic. You used to tell me and Harry to consider compassion towards the mages. Shouldn’t you consider compassion towards Templars?”_ Her knuckles had paled against the cushioned edge of her seat, fingers crushing velvet.

“What’s done is done,” Petrina said, struggling to keep her lingering anger from her words, “you can only change the future now.”

“Yes, and wonder of wonders, that future is a former Libertarian mage.” If he meant it as an insult, his smirk ruined it. Her heart stuttered a fraction at the way the sun slanted across his irises, making them gleam like gold. _He’s kind, isn’t he? Not like Wendell, but honest and good._ Throat trembling, she turned away as a familiar pain blistered behind her eyelids. “Herald?”

Embarrassment settled over her, alongside the subtle sting of humiliation. In the Circle, mages didn’t show emotion in front of Templars. Crying was among the worst. And yet, she couldn’t stop the first tear from running down her cheek. Swiping at it, she emitted a sharp exhale. No words would come forth. She had none left to speak. He probably thought her mad, well, more so than before.

 _“When your anger runs dry, Petrina, you will stand atop a field of corpses and ruin,”_ Lydia used to chastise back in Ostwick. That wasn’t what happened at all. Instead, Petrina’s anger ran dry to the reek of red lyrium and blood magic, after it seeped into every crevice the Circle’s twisted labyrinth had created.

_The past is done. It’s time to fight for the future, before there’s nothing left to defend._

The little carriage and Inquisition retinue pushed past sweeping curves of rutted roads and stretches of browned farmland, deserted lean-tos and firepits, Templar banners flapping like fire on the wind. Grey-blue skies broke as the carriage crawled higher into the mountains, yielding to the glaring verdant wound of the Breach. Peridot flickered against her skin, just a prick of pain, a reminder. Turning her hand over, she watched the odd glow wane against her palm. Red lyrium was like a parasite, and her mark reacted to it, seemed to be spreading like those damned crystals, so what did it mean?

* * *

 

On returning to Haven, Petrina and Cullen headed their separate ways to the first echoes of blue nightfall in the skies above. Reports would wait until morning. The first thing Petrina wrote before that, though, was a letter by candlelight to the one person she trusted more than anyone in Thedas:

_Rowan,_

_You might want to make a mark on your calendar. I might have been wrong. The Kirkwall Knight-Captain might not have been as awful as I initially believed. We’re not about to become fast friends, but he’s genuine, unlike Ser Wendell. Genuinely kind, I mean. Apart from how much he makes my skin writhe when he goes on about the dangers of magic, Cullen isn’t as awful as I perhaps anticipated. Elise will dance with joy if you tell her._

_We’ve also been joined by a mage from Tevinter, a distant cousin of ours from House Pavus. You’d like him. He’s twice as egotistical as you on a good day, and just as sarcastic. Infuriating as he can be, he’s a good friend. He’s no substitute for you, dear brother, so don’t fret too badly. I’ll never replace you, sadly. That also means you can’t go dying in Orlais, now._

_Tell me if you’ve had any word from Harry. I’ve heard nothing from home since I left for the Conclave. I know you dislike Mother (apart from Cat, none of us are too fond of Mother dearest), but if I’ve been formally disowned, I’d like to be made aware._

_I miss you and your antics._

_Yours,_

_Petrina_

Folding the letter over, Petrina reached for her candlestick. Borrowing some of the wax drippings, she waited for it to harden some before pressing her ring into the vellum. Her hand shook as she pulled it back. Given how easily letters were lost on the road, she hoped this one reached Rowan rather than her last, sulking letter. He needed _something_ to cheer him up, after all. The poor lad was stranded in Orlais. Much as she liked a good tryst with an Orlesian chevalier, they weren’t known for being _kind._

A crisp knock at her door sent Petrina rushing to greet the visitor. She half-expected to find Cullen there, but was relieved to find Fiona at the doorstep instead, jade eyes severe as they latched onto Petrina’s left hand. “I heard you were having problems, Herald,” the former Grand Enchanter said.

“Come in,” Petrina urged. A prim twist of her good hand sent the waning flames in the hearth roaring again.

Fiona entered, nudging the door shut in her wake. The women sat near the fire’s illumination. Silent, Fiona took Petrina’s marked hand, turning it over with meticulous scrutiny. “The Fade is many things, but reasonable, that it is not,” Fiona said, “what can you tell me about it?”

“It opens rifts, closes them, flares up around red lyrium, and sometimes it stings me. It also seems larger than when I woke.”

Fiona pressed her lips together. “This would be easier if we had any idea of how you _got_ it.”

“They say I fell out of the Fade.”

Brows notching, Fiona flicked her bangs from her eyes as she straightened. “One thing is certain, at least, it is meant to manipulate the Veil, providing a path to the Fade, meaning it was created intentionally. Your resident apostate Solas suspects as much, and he is correct.”

“Like a key.”

“Yes, although _these_ types of keys come at great costs to their owners.”

“Nothing magical ever comes without a cost,” Petrina recited. Resentment unfurled in her. She hadn’t _sought_ this, not like those greedy fools in the cautionary tales from Tevinter.

“Sealing the Breach could neutralize the mark.” Fiona’s lips thinned. “Or, that could make things worse.”

Lashes falling, Petrina pressed her marked hand to her chest. “How long do I have?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

“Don’t talk like that. You’re much too young to be asking such questions.”

“Not with this thing on my hand.”

“We’ll keep an eye on it,” Fiona said.

Petrina forced her eyes open, back toward the greenish skin on her left hand. Running her right hand’s fingers over the left’s palm, she felt herself nod. That wouldn’t do any good. Magical keys couldn’t be resolved with just a flick of power. They took their price in full when it was due. “We have to stop this Elder One quickly, then.”

“The Breach first, Herald,” Fiona urged, squeezing the younger mage’s knee as she stood. “Be well, my dear, and have courage. You used to have more of it.”

Petrina snorted, head shaking. Rotating her signet ring, she watched the flames lash at the hearth’s blackened brick walls. “When everything around you falls to ruin, you start to doubt.”

“I regret the violence as much as anyone does, and I condemn it with them too, but I don’t regret the rebellion itself. How they reacted to our independence was the problem.”

“There were blood mages in our ranks, as I’m sure there were in yours.” Hands towering together, Petrina looked to Fiona. “Perhaps if we’d purged them from the start, none of this would’ve happened.”

“This is about Redcliffe.”

“I don’t like how you handled it,” Petrina agreed, “you put all of us in a tough position. I understand the temptation of freedom, but Tevinter has _never_ cared about us. Any aid they gave or offered us always came with strings attached.” She shifted back toward the fire, shoulders hunching toward the flames’ warmth. King Alistair had been the closest to furious she imagined him capable of back when he first arrived at Redcliffe Castle. That anger had stayed with him during their meeting days earlier. It was a mercy that she and Cullen had managed to eradicate the remaining Venatori, winning back Ferelden’s favor. _For now._ The wound Fiona’s actions caused at Redcliffe would last for _years_ , no matter what Arl Teagan said.

The nobility held grudges. Given that what Fiona did constituted an attempted coup, Petrina almost pitied the arl. He had a valid point, at the very _least_. “You are lucky you didn’t have to make such a tough decision, then,” Fiona said.

“I want independence for mages, justice for us, but not through blood magic and Tevinter,” Petrina said. Loathing curdled in her at the softness her voice held. “We’ve come too far to stoop to their levels, and what I saw in the Venatori reminded me of Ostwick. Templars might always have a place, and unless we want their boots on our necks again, we’d best stop acting like the monsters they make us out to be.”

Flames flared in the hearth, snapping at the brass screen. Fiona muttered something inaudible before retreating into the night. Cold air slithered into the little cabin as the door slammed after her. Forehead falling to her clasped hands, Petrina swore in vibrant Tevene. Circles weren’t the solution. Templars weren’t the solution. Neither was Tevinter and its long history of chains and bloodshed. She refused to let her people devolve into the tyrants of Tevinter. They deserved better. All Southern Thedas deserved better.

 _Yes, the broken, grieving woman with a grudge can lead us all to victory_ , her doubt taunted in Harry’s snide arrogance.

Groaning, Petrina hopped to her feet. Buttoning her cloak, she hurried into the freezing night. The tavern’s windows were bright with the warm glow of candles, songs drifting past ajar doors and shutters. She stepped inside to heat rushing at her cheeks, the rampant thud of music in her ears, the persistent push of bodies against each other on floor unoccupied by tables or chairs. Ordering brandy, she hopped into a seat near the back, savoring its sear on her tongue and throat with each sip.

What little peace was to be found in her solace cracked the instant a lean shadow dipped over her. She glanced up into mischievous, large grey-blue eyes. Sera raised a slim blonde eyebrow. “Maker’s balls, this is a sad sight. Lady-bits in here, drinking alone.” She eased into the seat opposite Petrina, raking the mage up and down. “Something happen to you? Bad sex? Good sex? You finally threw Jackboot out on his ass?”

“No,” Petrina said, flapping a hand. “I just had to clear my head after…”

“Your little journey with Jackboot? We all heard.” Sera leaned back in her seat, perching her arms up on the chair’s back. “Varric and I made a bet that only _one_ of you was coming back. Never thought it’d be you, though. No offense, but Jackboot is a mite bigger and stronger.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Petrina blurted. She curled her tongue against the roof of her mouth, cursing its looseness.

“Did you hit your head or something?” Sera asked, squinting at the alleged Herald. “The Lady-bits _I_ remember couldn’t shut up about Templars. Real magey one, _that_ Lady-bits. Did nothing but glare and curse.”

“No, Sera,” Petrina droned. _I wish I had now, though._ “I just… he’s not that bad, I suppose.”

“Don’t turn into one of those ninnies pining for him, that’s all I ask.” Sera scrunched her nose.

 _That_ was laughable. Petrina couldn’t imagine any poor woman lusting after Cullen. The man was nice enough, and if he didn’t frown or call her names, he was alright to look at, but beyond that, he was awkward and stilted in conversations and mannerisms. She doubted he had much experience, not that there was anything wrong with that. She’d deflowered quite a few Orlesian lads in her time. Somehow, she doubted Fereldan and Orlesian women were as forgiving. Most wanted a quick roll in the hay. They needed someone experienced for that.

Breath catching, Petrina blinked into Sera’s startled, saucer-like stare. A pain ripped up Petrina’s side. It wasn’t the mark or a blade, not this time. _Laughter, real and genuine laughter._ “Right, that was scary, let’s never do that again, yeah?” Sera hopped to her feet. “Good chat, Lady-bits. I’ll see you… when you’re _sane_ again. Maybe?”

Petrina waited until the blonde elven rogue had drifted into the crowd to shove her forehead against the table’s scrubbed surface. _You’re not going to die. Not yet._ And yet, emptiness clawed at her the more she dwelled on that notion. Would anyone stand over her grave with tears in their eyes and love on their faces, as people had for her father? Would anyone remember her name? Did she want them to? Another gulp of brandy emptied her glass. Slamming the glass down, she ordered another. Two then turned into three. Regrets and guilt multiplied, impossible to dull even against the haze of alcohol. One glass after the other.

Harry would dance on her grave. Elise would perhaps sob. Cat would cry, as would Rowan. Gregory would give a dignified, stoic weep. Their mother wouldn’t even flinch. Heartless shrew that Bann Trevelyan was, she’d no doubt set to work telling everyone who asked that the _mage_ was now officially dead. And that thought made Petrina’s head spin as she realized that her mother probably wouldn’t even bother ordering a sarcophagus in the family crypts for the _mage’s_ ashes. _Robbed of my birthright by the Chantry and my own damned mother._ Not that Petrina anticipated her ashes even reaching Ostwick again, given that she’d probably just be turned to black and green shards once the mark devoured her.

Chilled wood pressed at Petrina’s cheek as she laid her head back down, the room around her blurring to a mess of light and sound. Hot tears plumed in her eyes. She hadn’t needed any of them when she was in the Circle, yet it felt as if she’d just gotten everything back when the Conclave exploded, and this stupid Inquisition happened. She didn’t want it. She never wanted it.

 _Why me?_ Squeezing her eyes shut, she let the tears fall in great, gulping sobs. It was a faint touch that sent her jolting upright.

“S-Sera?” she slurred, rotating toward the hand that had brushed her shoulder. Disappointment knifed her as she drank in the concerned golden-brown stare of Cullen Rutherford. _Shit. Shit… how much have I had?_

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Herald.”

“No, you aren’t,” she said, standing on uneasy legs. “You just want to humiliate me.” She wagged a finger at him. “I know your _type_. You get off on watching me make an idiot out of myself.”

Cullen sighed through his teeth. “Herald, respectfully, you should get back to your cabin. You can barely stand up.”

“I’m _fine_.” She jostled him on her way past. Somehow, she made it into the night before her uneven strides brought her tumbling into the snow and mud.

“May I help you now?” Cullen asked, materializing at her side.

She glared up at him, disdain unfurling in her. The smugness on his face was patronizing at best and condescending at the worst. Panic bloomed in her as he reached down. Instinct kicked in, and she surged to her feet. She ran, yelping as the ground flew out from beneath her again, cold slashing at her attire as mud and snow splashed across it. Once more, he materialized over her. “ _Now_ will you accept my help?” he asked. “Or do you like humiliating yourself and the Inquisition like this?”

Anger blistered in her veins. “What do I care if I’m humiliated?” she spat. “I’m already an embarrassment! The _mage child_! _No child of mine_! My own _fucking_ mother! There I was, snot-nosed, all of eight, terrified for my life, and my good-for-nothing shithead of a mother said that I was no child of hers! That I’d _tainted_ the family name!” Her breaths were too fast, her words too quick, she couldn’t make sense of any of it, but Maker, she didn’t care. She was so _pissed._

Cullen had stiffened above her, all color draining from his features. Glee spiraled through her. Let the Templar twat who ran off on promises of _justice_ and _goodness_ revel in the horrors she’d endured. Let him know what _actual_ suffering felt like. That delight was temporary. Soon enough, reality cut her. Her mother _had_ said those things, and alongside that, scarcely visited, rarely spent time together when Petrina was allowed home, treated her as if she’d been born a leper. _As if I didn’t exist._ Even that was too simplistic. Petrina had been treated as a Trevelyan, expected to uphold the family motto even in the Circle. _“No matter where you go or who you become, you will always be a Trevelyan.”_ The impossibly high obligations were always there, though Petrina wasn’t entitled to the benefits. No title. No inheritance. No proud smiles and acknowledgements of her achievements. More to do, always more to do, or more often, _not_ do. Nothing in return, not even a _shard_ of compassion from the tyrant they all called a mother, the woman they all wished had perished to fever instead of the benevolent man with the chestnut hair and dimpled smile. But, it hadn’t come from nowhere. Bann Trevelyan’s excellent parenting skills had root in the unmoving monolith that had governed Southern Thedas for centuries, stripped mages of dignity and freedom.

_The Chantry._

Shoulders slumping, Petrina gusted a white cloud into the night’s frigid air. “All because of your stupid Chantry and its stupid prophetess,” she continued, barely audible. “My damned mother thought it was better to let me rot because my magic tainted me. I don’t give two shits if I’m humiliated. And as for your _Inquisition._ Have you looked at us lately? We’re nothing but mercenaries and lunatics. It’s all a joke.”

“You don’t mean that.” Cullen knelt before her. She slid back at his abrupt closeness.

“You don’t know me at all, _Commander_ ,” she snarled.

“You wouldn’t have stayed if you meant that.”

A coil tightened in her stomach. Past the alcohol clogging her thoughts, she knew he was right. The Inquisition wasn’t the Chantry. That was why she’d stayed. _They listen to you._ She gulped down a thick breath, sleeve scrubbing at the tears drying on her cheeks. “You could never understand.”

“No, but I’m willing to try if you are,” Cullen said, extending a hand as he stood.

Moonlight glided past the tall buildings and sloping rooftops, making his skin pale as alabaster. She tilted her head. He wasn’t wearing his gloves. _Damned Fereldans and this stupid cold._ Yet, she wasn’t going very far on her own this time. Locking gazes with him, she placed her hand in his, gripping tight as she hefted herself to her feet. He was strong and sturdy against her hand, yet he didn’t crush her hand the way other men tended to in some pathetic show of power. As if they thought brute strength would impress her. No, he was as gentle as his timid smiles and cautious laughs indicated. His hand was warm against hers, practically a miniature fire against the persistent Fereldan cold. She ducked her head, though the streets they moved through were empty. Sometimes, she caught him watching her. It didn’t hit her until they reached her cabin that someone had sent him to find her, and he’d found her a drunken, crying mess.

 _I will never live this down_ , Petrina thought as she stepped into her little domain to shuck off her boots and clothing. When she finally laid down in her furs to rest, his words reverberated into her last shreds of consciousness. _“No, but I’m willing to try if you are.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contemplating your immediate mortality is never a good idea when you are drunk. Just saying. I mean, it makes sense that a mage would know Hawke’s name? I can’t wait for Petrina to fan girl over Dahlia Hawke. I’m actually a chatty, happy drunk, probably because I’m so angry and cynical sober. I don’t get drunk often, just… you know… putting it out there. In case you wondered. I’m not this dark.
> 
> As far as canon goes... I stick to it when I know it, like lore things. The Circles: siblings in different Circles, no titles, inheritances, etc. Dialogue with Josie suggests a noble mage could've visited home because House Trevelyan is close to the Chantry. I like the idea of each Circle having different colored robes. I'm a nerd like that because I grew up in the 90s on Power Rangers and color-coding was my jam as a child. Otherwise... I make it up. I also wanted more Fiona interactions with an ex-Circle mage character. Next chapter... MORE LELIANA!!! (And awkward conversations.) I bet no one knows who's Divine in any of my playthroughs. xD (I love Leliana, and I replay DA: Origins all the time.)
> 
> Oh, and rating changed just because... the violence isn't that bad and what sex scenes there will be are going to be pretty... sedate? Ish? I can always change it later if I disagree with myself (but that's future Lady's problem and she's an asshole, I hear).


	10. Into the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petrina and Cullen share an awkward conversation about past regrets, drunken confessions, and scars that never fade. With Redcliffe safe from the remnants of the Elder One's Venatori, the Inquisition turns its attentions toward the gaping maw in the sky. The Breach must be sealed.

Uncorking his potion with a bite, Cullen spat the cork onto his “desk” before gulping the vial’s contents down. With the vial, he was more cautious, corking it before laying it in a chest at the foot of his bed. Rosy light seeped past the flaps of his tent, washing his little area in pastel sunshine. Resuming the task at hand, he hunched over the map sprawled over his makeshift desk. The thing was covered in sweeping lines, each in various colors of ink. No matter how many times he ran through it, he kept thinking he was forgetting something. Failure wasn’t an option here. With a sigh, he planted his hands on the table.

A shadow doused his light source. Leliana glided into his tent, a fresh stack of papers in her gloved hand. “More news from the fall of Ostwick’s Circle,” she reported. “I thought you might find it interesting.”

Cullen ran a hand down his face. Petrina’s drunken sobbing came back to him in vivid color. She would burn him alive if he dared mention it to her, though. With a swallow, he extended his hand toward Leliana, took the papers she placed in his palm. He gave them a quick skim. Most of the papers were travel papers, permission to study in Tevinter, assignments completed in the Circle, leaves of absence to visit home. Other papers were records of the lives lost in Ostwick and accounts meticulously copied by Chantry scribes in official reports. _“Half the Circle was destroyed when the blood mages turned poor Oliver Adair into an abomination,”_ a report read. _“A Pride abomination, I think, massive thing, nasty.”_ Fire had poured from Petrina’s palms as the pride demon tore through the Venatori’s features mere nights earlier at Redcliffe Castle. Cullen found it extreme at the time.

“Oliver Adair?”

“Son of Lady Adair, one of the first chevaliers of her house, Orlesian, the youngest daughter. They married her to an Ostwick family of silk-traders. Oliver came into his magic young, no older than thirteen. He and our Lady Herald didn’t meet until an entropy lesson three years later. Near as I can tell, they were romantically involved for a while.”

_She mentioned something about lovers turning into abominations._ Cullen dropped the papers against his map. It wasn’t any business of his, yet, this was a far cry from his boyish crush on the unsuspecting Felicity Amell back in Ferelden. This was someone he’d fought alongside, the purported sacred figure at the helm of their Inquisition. Hands raking through his hair, Cullen nodded. Nothing he hadn’t anticipated. The death of a lover explained the bitterness. “Anything else?”

“The society pages in Ostwick reported that the Herald appeared at parties after the pyres stopped burning.” Distance pooled in Leliana’s dour blue eyes. “They said she appeared in ‘signature Trevelyan blue’ and ‘with her raven tresses in crisp ringlets.’ And some rot about how ‘any Tevinter lord would be lucky to have her as his wife.’”

No doubt, that had been the plan. Tevinter formally couldn’t cavort with the nobility of Southern Thedas, absent risking apostasy charges and being sent to a Southern Circle. Yet, no one was foolish enough to risk a war by sending a visiting lord or lady to a Circle. No one could try, either, as most of them came with a full guard to the South. Many blended in quite well, until they opened their mouths.

Cullen had no idea how the highborn mages fared in the wake of the Circle’s fall. By his estimations, most were shuttled off to Tevinter for marriage or to live with distant relations. “I take it that didn’t happen.”

“No.” Leliana’s lips slipped upward. “She caused a scandal by slipping away to the Conclave against her family’s wishes.”

_That_ sounded like Petrina. Willful, defiant, and stalwart in her convictions. “Of course she did,” Cullen snorted. A dry grin tugged at his mouth.

“And here I thought you couldn’t stand her.”

“She’s not that bad.” _She saved my life._ An absent hand drifted toward his side, pressing uselessly at the armor that lay above his scar.

“You know, she stopped me from executing a traitor in our ranks,” Leliana mused, a genuine smile threading across her features.

“Butler.”

“Yes. Said I should find a better way.” Laughter tore from Leliana as she shook her hooded head. “She was quite convincing.”

Remembering Petrina’s smooth words to Arl Teagan and King Alistair, Cullen had no doubt that she could bring the world to its knees if she desired it. She didn’t need the mage fire. Her eloquence was far more astute than his flushed, frustrated stammering. He would never have the gift with words that she possessed, no doubt, due to her noble heritage. They dealt in courtesy as much as they did war and greed.

“I read your reports,” Leliana went on, gliding into the tent, “about Redcliffe Castle. I’ve instructed Agent Lavellan to monitor the Dales and ordered our agents in the Hinterlands to watch for Venatori encampments as a precaution.”

“It seems prudent, though I doubt they’ll show their faces there again.”

“You never know when they might get brash. Besides, we’ve had whispers of odd activity out in the Dales, and I mean more than the Orlesian civil war.”

Nose scrunching at the reminder, Cullen shifted his weight. That damned war served only the bloated nobility. How they saw themselves as saviors when they were slaughtering their own people, he had no idea. “Any _odd activity_ was likely brought on by something the other side did,” he grumbled.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Leliana locked her hands behind her back, shoulders straightening. “In any case, Cassandra thinks we should aim to seal the Breach today. The Herald assures us that all is well with the mages and your soldiers. Grand Enchanter Fiona confirmed the Herald’s assessment.”

He’d expected Cassandra to insist on sealing the Breach _today_. What he hadn’t expected was to find Petrina chin-deep in brandy the other night, mourning a childhood she’d never had. He doubted she would be too keen to risk her life after _that_. “Have you seen the Herald this morning?”

“Once. She had a nasty headache and was in the apothecary’s hut mixing something for it,” Leliana said.

Cullen fought down a string of curses. “I’ll speak with her.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

_No, it’s quite foolish._ But, Cullen didn’t want anyone else getting wind of the Herald’s hangover. Maker knew the Inquisition didn’t need that problem, and for whatever it was worth, Petrina didn’t need the gossip either. He shuffled out of the tent, strides longer than usual. The apothecary’s hut was up in Haven, just past the Chantry. Solas was outside the hut, harsh eyes trained on the clouds lazing in the blue sky. The apostate said not a word as Cullen neared. He pushed on into the apothecary, ignoring the wry grin Solas wore.

Hunched over a mortar and pestle, pounding away at a mixture with her hair loosely bound at the nape of her neck, was Petrina. She paused to rake an arm across her forehead right as Cullen entered. Those silver irises slipped toward him for just a moment, and she went rigid. A flush welled in her cheeks as she turned aside. “Commander,” she greeted.

“Herald.” Hesitant feet pulled him toward her. “Cassandra wishes the Breach sealed today.”

“I’m aware.”

_Are you well enough for the attempt?_

The pestle slipped from her hand to the floor, evoking a curse from her. Cullen waited as she stooped to retrieve it, her hand shaking as it twisted around the pestle. “I’ll be there,” Petrina said as she stood, swiping grit from the pestle.

“Will you be standing upright?” Cullen blurted to searing regret. He expected her to bathe him in flame, but instead she stared at him a moment with those pallid eyes. Then, her red mouth quirked with a light chortle.

“And here I thought you had no sense of humor, Commander.” Shifting away from him, she hunched her shoulders and resumed pounding her pestle at the mixture in the mortar. Unease slithered into his veins. He didn’t dare speak into the quiet. Letting the steady rhythm of stone fill the air as she pounded her pestle at her mixture, he rested his hands on his sword hilt. “I would like to apologize for my lack of composure the other night, and my intoxicated state,” she bit out, “it will not happen again.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Herald,” Cullen said. The apology explained her shaking. Many mages in Kirkwall fumbled around him when they’d committed some obscure violation of an odd rule or restriction imposed by his then-superior.

“I do, though,” she huffed, hands falling from the mortar and pestle to the counter. “I’ve been unfair to everyone, but you especially.”

Tugging at the bridge of his nose, he cleared his throat. “I understand, Herald.”

“You said you wanted to _try_ to understand the other night,” she continued, pivoting to face him, “did you mean it?”

His throat shriveled beneath the look she pinned him with, all severity and demand. A request for assurance. Yet, it wasn’t wrong. He _had_ said that. He _had_ meant it. The things he’d witnessed in Kirkwall and Ferelden, he’d never had to worry about them. He never knew what it was to fear the flaming sword. In his earliest memories of playing in sunlit fields with his siblings, the flaming sword on a Templar shield was protective and just. A symbol of goodness. Magic was a danger to be kept from harming people, mages included. The Order lost its way somewhere in all those years of overseeing the Circles. His head moved once, forming a timid nod.

Swiping her hands on her plain brown breeches, Petrina readjusted the tie on her hair. Distance carved itself into her expression. “I was eight when they found me with what was going to be Cat’s gown for the start of her season. What was left of the gown, at any rate. I’d burned it in a bout of jealousy. Rowan tried to hide me when the Templars came two days later. They dragged me downstairs. I cried all night.” She crossed her arms, fingers curling against her rolled-up sleeves. “They locked me away. Lydia became my mentor once I finally went hoarse from screaming and was permitted to mix with the other apprentices.”

Cullen recognized that name, vaguely, as one of Vivienne’s friends. Leliana’s reports indicated Senior Enchanter Lydia died when the Circle fell, killed by one of her own students. “I’m surprised you got along with her, given how different your views on magic must have been.”

Petrina released a glacial laugh. “We fought, frequently. I didn’t listen. I thought I could tame the more extreme elements among us. And now she’s dead.”

“That’s not your fault.” _Didn’t you tell me to stop dwelling in the past?_ Sometimes speaking advice was easier than heeding it.

“No, but had I listened, then maybe…” Her brows drew together. “There was someone else.” Her thumb nail flicked at her signet ring, filling the stillness with the scrape of keratin on metal. “Someone I cared about died that day, turned into a monster that slaughtered almost everyone. I could’ve saved him if I’d just thought for two seconds and not acted on my damnable impulses.” _Oliver Adair_ , she meant.

“You can’t know that.” Cullen had similar thoughts after Ferelden and Kirkwall. If he’d been a tad braver, quicker, smarter, he could’ve saved _someone_. It was useless, of course. There was nothing he could’ve done, no matter what his nightmares told him.

She mulled his words, then her shoulders fell. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve thought the same, and it doesn’t do any good to wonder. You told me that the future is what matters now, as that can be changed.”

“I knew the bastards that turned him into that _thing_ ,” she continued in a feral hiss. “They were my friends, my colleagues. I trained some of them.”

_So did you._ Hands twisting together, Cullen sighed. Sunlight filtered into the cramped apothecary, creating spectrums on the wall as it slipped past glass jars and bottles adorning the shelves. The fresh tingle of cold air made the strong scent of herbs more striking, somehow. In some ways, it reminded him of the storage in the Ferelden Circle where the mages stored their potion ingredients and enchanting supplies. _The phylacteries._ He’d overseen the creation of phylacteries in Kirkwall. So many tear-stained faces simmered in resentment, children’s eyes glaring with hatred as they digested his features, remembered his visage. Blood glowed against the enchanted glass as the First Enchanter created the tie to the Spire.

It was said the Chantry created a lyrium leash when it trained Templars, fermenting their addiction that led to control. What few people remembered was that phylacteries served as leashes too, of mages to the Spire, the Chantry, the Templars. Anyone with that phylactery could track a mage. He’d trained many a Templar in tracking mages, disciplining them, purging them. _Many of them used that knowledge to abuse mages._

Revelation daggered Cullen as he lingered in the apothecary’s hush. Mia used to joke that mages and Templars were two sides of the same coin, like light and shadow.

“You couldn’t control how they used that knowledge,” Cullen muttered. His past self was somewhere in Kirkwall arguing the opposite to an obstinate Dahlia Hawke against scalding summer sunshine. Heat flooded his cheeks as Petrina’s cold stare found his. Steel burnished her look, but there wasn’t any malice in it this time. For whatever reason, she was being honest with him.

“I suppose I have no ground to stand on,” she went on.

“I doubt you killed for sport as they did.”

“No, but I took great joy when I finally wreaked my revenge on _him_ ,” she snarled, nails twisting at her sleeves. _Wendell_ , Cullen knew. “I didn’t regret it. He begged for mercy. I didn’t give it to him.”

“I doubt he warranted it anyway.”

Her harshness withered a smidge as she regarded him, searching for some sign that he was going to shatter his vows that she had “nothing to fear.” Regret smoothed out her previous ire. “Even so, his death made it easier afterwards to kill. I didn’t even flinch out in the Hinterlands when we found the mages that refused Fiona’s summons. The rest of the rebellion.” Her thumb pressed at her forehead. “One of them knew me. He was from Ostwick. And as for the Venatori, that man we killed, I knew him too, in Vyrantium. Incidents like that make me wonder if your lot wasn’t right about us after all, if my mother wasn’t actually right… and I’ve been the mad one all this time.”

_You aren’t a monster._ “A mad woman wouldn’t say such things.” A gamble, but she didn’t set him ablaze for it.

“So I keep telling myself,” she said. With a weak laugh, she shook her head. Loose hair fluttered against her pale cheek, jet on marble. “For whatever it’s worth, and I know it isn’t much, you aren’t what I’ve expected.”

“I’m nervous about what you _were_ expecting.”

“Take your pick,” she said, “I’m sure you can imagine, between Ferelden and Kirkwall, what I anticipated.”

His mirth evaporated. Yes, he knew too well what she’d expected. She’d been braced for the man he’d _been_ , and worse, that wasn’t all too long ago. The remnants of a bitter man enthralled with his own suffering, mercifully short in comparison to what she endured, what he and his comrades put her people through in Kirkwall and Ferelden. “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he continued, forcing his patience.

Doubt radiated through her expression. “When you say it that way, I almost want to believe it.” She released a long sigh. “Still, I suppose you would’ve beheaded me the moment I returned from Redcliffe with the mages in tow had you intended otherwise.”

“I would never do that,” he said, indignant.

“No, but you did yell at me,” she nettled.

Exhaling through his nose, he reiterated what he’d told her that day she returned from Redcliffe, “I was simply concerned.”

“As am I,” she assured him, dappled shade fringing her profile. His thoughts replayed her words, certain he’d heard them wrong. Yet, she offered no correction or explanation. Rather, she returned to her mixture. He took that as his permission to leave. Stone-like, he inched his feet toward the door. “And Cullen,” she called, invoking a halt in his tracks as his hand brushed the door handle, “thank you.”

Face simmering, he grunted something back on his trek into the day. The sound of her voice against his name, soft and almost uncertain, rang through his ears as he stalked back to his tent. Leliana’s bundle of papers sat atop his map still, though she was long gone. He pulled one of the pages free. Instant regret speared him as he skimmed the careful, educated hand. A letter, and from the name branded atop the page, it wasn’t just any letter. Yet, he couldn’t stop his curiosity from delving further down the page.

_Ollie,_

_I know you and I disagree on the best course of action we should take after Kirkwall. I can’t be a plaything to_ him _any longer, and I refuse to let what happened to me happen to Ginevra or the others. Our time to take a stand is now. For good or ill, we can’t be their captives any longer._

_Compromise has gotten us nowhere. We must stand for something; else nothing will change._

_Yours,_

_P.T._

Another letter, the edges blackened with mage fire, lay beneath that one. With a swallow, Cullen unfolded the second letter:

_Petra,_

_I would beg you not to do this, but your damnable stubbornness has never heeded my patience. I can only pray now that it won’t be the end of us all. Whatever happens, I have always cared for you and that will never change._

_Love,_

_O.A._

There was no response. Perhaps he never sent the letter. Perhaps Petrina never bothered writing a reply. Cullen scrubbed a hand down his face. This was personal. He ran through the other pages. The rest were reports, including one on her academic progress in Tevinter. Her research notes, copied faultlessly in that crisp hand of hers, were meticulous and intriguing. A lot of it revolved around ancient Tevinter architecture and murals depicting the Old Gods, but more of her research delved into the different types of dragons, wingspans, dieting habits, nesting routines, color patterns on scales, body shape. He was surprised at how fascinating it all was, how intricate and layered the details became.

Past the notes was a miniature portrait, a rounded canvas bearing the visage of a young man with bright green eyes and uneven red hair, freckled features tipped toward the light washing past the windowpanes beside him. He was clad in Ostwick green. From behind the miniature, a small coiled piece of paper rolled free. Uncurling the yellowed scrap of paper revealed uneven handwriting that read: _Petra, this is the most recent portrait. I’m not fond of it, but I know you wanted one for some Maker-forsaken reason. Don’t show it to anyone else, alright? — O._

Another note was scrawled in beneath those words: _You look fine. The lighting is very picturesque. I’ll order a miniature the next time I return home. I imagine Cat will want another round with all of us soon, especially since Harry’s coming back this winter. — P._

“Decent reading, I take it?”

He jumped as Cassandra strode into his tent. Quick, he stowed Leliana’s papers, plus the miniature and its note, beneath his map. “More information on our illustrious Herald,” he said, “I trust everything is going well.”

“Thus far, yes,” Cassandra said, hazel irises thinning into skeptical slits as they surveyed him, “things seem civil between you and our Herald. King Alistair sent word en route to Denerim about your efforts in Redcliffe.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve read my report yet.”

“Josephine is copying it now for our records.” Cassandra crossed her arms, metal and cloth jostling at the motion. “Did you have a healer look at your injury?”

“There’s no need for that,” Cullen said. “The Herald healed it.”

“She isn’t a healer, you know.”

“I’ll have her examine it again before tonight’s assault.”

“If you think that’s wise.”

He had no idea if it was wise, but Petrina could’ve killed him in Redcliffe at any time. That he was standing now was thanks to her efforts. “I doubt you came here to talk about our journey to Redcliffe.”

“No,” Cassandra agreed, “that isn’t my sole purpose.” She glanced over her shoulder and moved further into the tent. “It would seem one of the Templars has gone missing. Ser Dowell.”

Trudging toward the trunk containing his records, Cullen began riffling through the sea of papers and dossiers. After what seemed an age, he produced a worn leather folio. One prompt skim of the papers revealed Ser Dowell’s record, including a recent revision in his hand detailing the suspension of her Templar duties and temporary relinquishment of her equipment. _The Templar that the Herald punished_ , Cullen recollected. “Have we any idea where she is headed?”

“I didn’t even know she was gone until now.” Cassandra’s mouth hardened into a firm line. “I take it you’re aware, though.”

“Ser Dowell had an incident with one of the mages and the Herald and I both deemed it prudent that Ser Dowell’s duties be suspended temporarily.”

“Wonderful,” Cassandra intoned. Gloved hands pressed at her temples in large circles. “I suppose I’ll tell Josephine and Leliana to have their agents keep an eye out, then.”

“She just left?”

“And took one of Master Dennett’s finest stallions, yes.”

Thoughts racing, Cullen laid the dossier down on the table. “Anything else?” he pressed. “The blacksmith isn’t missing anything?”

“No. Thank the Maker she wasn’t _that_ brash.”

“Tell Master Dennett the Inquisition will find a way to compensate him for the loss of the horse,” Cullen recommended. Josephine would complain, but it wasn’t right to let the theft go uncompensated. The Inquisition was too recent an organization to risk irritating people, particularly well-known horse-breeders.

“I will, and have the Herald inspect your wound to ensure it’s not infected.”

Cullen waved Cassandra on with a brusque flap of his hand. He returned to his maps, scratching out routes and adding new patrols. There was no such thing as too much caution. With one last edit, he tucked his maps under his arm and headed for the war room.

The Chantry was quieter than usual when Cullen entered. Even Vivienne was gone from her usual position at the shrine near the main door. Mother Giselle had retreated somewhere, although the soft hum of song emanated from further in. A prayer of some type. He wasn’t as well-versed in the hymns as he should’ve been. He headed toward the war room. A trickle of uncertainty nipped at him as he discovered the door was ajar. Inching it open, he fought a curse. Petrina stood before the war table, tugging at her sleeves as she surveyed the map. “Maker’s breath,” he swore, “you startled me.”

“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” she clipped.

Certain he’d ruined whatever camaraderie they’d managed in Redcliffe, he moved to the shelf beyond her to store his maps. As he glided toward the door, his gaze trailed from her toward the war table’s map, following her focus to the distant pinpoint of Ostwick on a jagged shoreline across the Waking Sea. Understanding hit him. “Do you miss it?” he asked, barely audible over the roar of his heart in his ears.

“I always thought of it like a ball and chain around my ankle, but things change when you fall out of the Fade to demons drowning the world.” She cradled her marked hand in her good one, gnawing at her lower lip. “Solas thinks sealing the Breach will stabilize the flares.”

“Do you agree with him?”

“I don’t know a thing about the Fade. Fiona thinks there’s a possibility he’s right.”

_You had a Harrowing. Surely you know more about the Fade than an apostate._ Cullen tamped that objection. She wouldn’t want reminders of her Harrowing, and he couldn’t blame her. They had been a terrible risk on mages, Templars, and the Circle itself. “You studied in Tevinter.”

“Not the Fade. The Fade is another beast entirely from the Old Gods.”

_Naturally_ , his thoughts taunted. He ignored the onslaught of embarrassment. “I see.”

Coughing, she inclined to the chair near her. “At any rate, Josephine wanted me to inspect your injury and make sure it is healing properly.”

Old fears slithered into Cullen’s veins, dousing him in cold sweat. Reluctant hands undid his armor straps, pried the mail from his form. She waited, leaning against the war table as he lifted his shirt. Taking that as her invitation, she moved toward him, squinting at the yellowing bruise. “Not bad,” she mused, “guess Senior Enchanter Lydia’s lessons paid off after all. Not too much pain, I trust?”

“None now,” he said, his face white-hot. For an instant, humiliation twisted in his stomach. Then, he glimpsed Petrina as she moved around him. Caught beneath a shaft of sunlight, he noted the scarlet across her nose and cheeks.

“Then you shouldn’t die,” she said. “It also means I didn’t fuse your intestines to your liver.”

“ _Shouldn’t_?” he echoed as his shirt fell back in place.

“Depends on whether you keep your shield up and wear your armor when we take on the Breach,” she elaborated. “Cassandra wants us off the mountain before nightfall.”

Pulling his chainmail tunic over his head, Cullen stifled a groan. Assuming all went well, that request was attainable. Once the chainmail settled against his torso, he reached for his plate next. “We’d best gather the others then,” he said as he finished strapping on his armor. When he went to retrieve his mantle, he rounded to Petrina thrusting it at him.

“I’ll get them. Stay put.”

* * *

 

By some mercy, the war room meeting prior to gathering the soldiers and mages for the assault was short. Once the meeting adjourned, Cullen was consumed with his duties. He gathered the men and women under his command. Leliana roused her agents to back up his, and the mages rallied together around Fiona. Prayers thrummed in the air as people clustered near Haven’s gates. Petrina was among the last to thread through the crowds, staff at her back and hands toying with her gauntlets as those she’d recruited gathered around her. Cassandra and Varric would accompany the Herald up the mountain, as would Solas. The three Petrina fought alongside after she woke.

“Should we pray, Firestarter?” Varric asked.

“Prayers are for the dead,” Petrina replied with a skyward glance.

“Let’s hope not,” Solas said with a tepid smile in her direction.

Cassandra snared Cullen’s attention in the sea of faces. One curt nod was all the permission he nodded to begin the march up the mountain. Snows thickened as they moved up past Haven, stretching past his knees in some places. On his occasional looks back, he found himself seeking out that familiar lash of jet hair in the mesh of brown and blonde. The teal she wore was a stark contrast to Inquisition green and brown, though it soon meshed into the shadows. Air thinned around them as they climbed higher into the peaks, yawning up into the pines. Against the perpetual perfume of pine and snow, Cullen caught the pungent, stinging odor of red lyrium. Soon enough, the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes welled up around them in a ring of charred wood and hunched piles of stone brick. Over their heads, the Breach hissed and snapped with verdant energy, drowning out the sun.

He set to work ordering the patrols as Cassandra and Fiona worked out the mages’ positions on the rock formations remaining around the Breach. Solas stood with the mages. Varric loaded a bolt into Bianca, cocking the weapon for good measure. Petrina paced beneath the breach, her pallor unnatural in the green light. Her mark flared with peridot, the energy lashing outward and upward toward its twin in the sky. Cullen kept his hand on his sword hilt as Cassandra found her way toward Petrina. Patting the younger woman’s shoulder, Cassandra mouthed something to the mage. Fiona yelled to the mages. The din of staffs crashing to frostbitten ground filled the air, alongside the crack of magic. Petrina stretched her marked hand upward.

Acidic verdant fanned out as her fingers curled against her palm. Cullen tore his attention from the blinding heavens toward the small woman at the base of the Breach. Pale, sweat-slicked, her other hand bracing the marked one’s arm, she stood. Her knees trembled. Shards of a moonlit harrowing chamber drifted back to him in a recollection of red hair clinging to a freckled brow, a trembling hand taut against a blade’s hilt. _This isn’t the Circle._ _Felicity Amell is gone._ Scuffing his boots at the ground, he exhaled as the air quieted. Petrina tore her hand back.

Shouts rang out, and against them, Cullen caught an anguished cry in the chorus. As the green cleared from his vision, he realized she was on the ground, curled against her marked hand, breaths hard and uneven. He pushed past the crowds as Cassandra and Varric helped Petrina to her feet. A tentative smile loosened her ruby lips as several devoted faces swiveled toward her, adoration open in faithful eyes. Cullen hung back as more cheers rang out.

The march back to Haven was triumphant, set against the lingering sherbet swathe of sunset seeping past the mountains’ parting cloud cover. Parties began the instant the Inquisition and its soldiers returned to Haven. Cullen found himself doling out patrols that were lighter than usual. The soldiers were in high spirits. They’d earned a reprieve, considering all that could’ve gone wrong. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Cullen even caught Blackwall and Josephine trading coy compliments outside the Chantry. From the way she smiled, Cullen gathered Blackwall had managed the right balance between flattery and outright simpering. It was intriguing, given that Josephine was highborn and Blackwall was common enough to sleep in a stable.

“Cute, aren’t they?” Leliana asked.

Heart leaping, Cullen quelled a curse as the rogue sauntered to his side. “I’d ask where you learned to move so quietly, but I doubt I want to know.”

“Bard training,” Leliana quipped, her expression darkening. “No word on Ser Dowell yet.”

“Anything else?” he prompted.

“I called some of my agents back. There were recent losses in the Hinterlands, and I didn’t want to chance it. I fear it’s Venatori. The soldiers or Templars can handle a few arrogant Tevinter mages.”

A brash decision. Cullen wasn’t a gambling man, not after what he’d seen in Kirkwall and Ferelden. “Recent losses?” He hadn’t heard a thing from the irregulars stationed at the Crossroads.

“Reports from an agent of mine out there. She said a group of hers didn’t return from one of their scheduled watches in the hills.”

 “Do you think we were followed back from Redcliffe?” Cullen pressed.

“No, one of the guards would’ve noticed.”

Unease sliced through Cullen, Petrina’s hard words about the Elder One resonating in his ears again. She’d brushed aside his praise regarding her recruitment of the mages, insisted the Breach was but the first step. He’d found her, as he often did, too grim and narrow-minded. Her focus fisheye and paranoid. But, the Elder One was due to invade the South and reduce it to a demon-infested wasteland within the year. Dorian, for all that he joked about things, had _not_ jested about that much. The odd future had shaken Petrina enough to relay Cullen’s future death to him with what he perceived then as guilt. Given that she’d stared down a dragon and lived, he doubted there was much in Thedas that could rattle her composure. _The Elder One._ “Do we know anything else about this Elder One the Venatori claim to worship?”

Leliana rapped a finger against her lips. “If he’s real, a magister as Dorian suspects, then this Elder One is very well-hidden.”

“ _He_?”

“Tevinter is many things, Commander, but it is predictable. Besides, the Herald’s report confirmed that the Elder One is male, as did Dorian’s, in that our future selves both referred to the Elder One as such, as has Magister Alexius during our interrogations.”

“I trust you haven’t been too harsh on him.”

Leliana’s fingers fidgeted with the clasp on her cowl. “You don’t get information out of people by beating them senseless. Most people will say _anything_ to make the pain stop, even lies.”

“I’m surprised no one offered to collect him,” Cullen admitted. A man like Alexius surely had friends in high places, people who could barter for his life.

“Tevinter has stripped him of his titles and disowned him, according to Josie. Which means we’ll have to judge him at some point. I almost pity him. Whoever becomes our fearless leader will not go easy on the man.”

The lack of leadership was an issue no one bothered to address. Cullen wondered which poor soul would be roped into leading them. Maker knew Cassandra had tried to sway the war council’s various temperaments with little success. “We should decide soon, then.”

“We should celebrate our victories wherever they come from, Commander,” Leliana replied with a mischievous wink and slight inclination of her head. Then she spun on her heel and receded without another word.

Past where she’d stood, Cullen caught wisp of teal and a familiar head of raven hair. Her back was toward him, but she was alone. Nipping the tip of his tongue, he wound through the crowds of dancers and the wafting scents of food and liquor. She didn’t react until he sat beside her on the frigid wooden bench she’d chosen for her isolation. “Thought you’d be out there with them,” Cullen said, “Maker knows you can drink any of them under the table.”

“Not tonight,” she answered, burying her hands under her arms. Over their heads, orange light was decaying beneath the night’s impending black.

“Are you well?” he prodded, unable to stop himself. The pained shriek she unleashed up at the Breach echoed with vivid clarity in his ears.

“It’s too soon to celebrate, but the mark seems calmer now. Solas said it should stop bothering me so much, Maker willing.”

“You’re worried about the Elder One.”

“Aren’t you?” she challenged, head swiveling toward him.

“I was just told to celebrate our victories.”

“Cassandra said the same to me.” Petrina unleashed a huff, her exhalation trailing white into the night’s frigidity. Her scarlet lips pursed, then fell shut, all color draining from her features. Cullen’s inquiry died in his throat beneath the deafening peal of a bell.

Petrina was on her feet in an instant. Cullen followed suit, and as he stood, he saw the source of her discomfort: several bobbing torchlights winding through the dark pines beyond Haven. Breathless, Josephine jogged toward the duo. “What is going on?”

Cullen set his jaw. “A massive force, the bulk over the mountain.”

“Under whose banner?” Josephine demanded.

“None.”

Petrina shuddered, clutching her cloak tight against her petite frame. “Nor would there be,” she murmured, fixing hollow eyes on the ambassador and commander, “they’re Templars.”

_Maker’s breath._ Cullen readied an objection, but any protest stilled as a gale swept through Haven. The spiced, angry scent of red lyrium stung his lungs. “She’s right,” he said.

“Get to the gates,” Petrina urged him, “I’ll find anyone who isn’t too drunk and meet you there.”

Josephine tucked a black curl behind her ear. “Are you sure that’s wise, Herald?”

“If they’re here for me, they’re not taking my head without a fight,” Petrina retorted.

Uncertainty gripped Cullen. Thus far, they’d been lucky enough not to mourn a heroic icon to the people in their ranks. Their luck had to run out sometime, though. _Are you going to stop her?_ Thrusting aside his discomfort, he headed into the masses migrating up toward the town’s Chantry. It was a mage in Orlesian white that caught Cullen’s attention in the crowds, angled eyes a vibrant emerald, hair reddish gold even against nightfall. “Inside, now!” the mage cried, his accent revealing his Marcher origins as he ushered people up past Haven’s gates. Vivienne strode toward him, offering an approving albeit grim nod.

“Nicely done, Amell.”

Cullen turned aside as Vivienne and Amell headed for the Chantry. Continuing the trek through the crowded streets, Cullen found himself at the gates. He swallowed a lump in his throat as several footsteps padded in unison at his back.

Several loud knocks pulsed at the gates’ wood. “I can’t come in unless you open!” a young voice pleaded.

Petrina nudged past Cullen and Cassandra, brushing aside Varric as he reached for her. She tugged one of the gates open. Cullen lurched toward her as a massive shadow fell over the group. Wrenching his shield from his back, he raised it as a hulking, armored form raised a massive war hammer. The blow never came, though. Instead, the armored soldier dropped with a choked gasp, blood running down spiked, Tevinter armor. A lithe male form strode past the dead soldier, swiping blood from his blades on the corpse’s colors. Pale blue eyes surveyed Cullen and Petrina from beneath the shadow of a hat’s enormous brim. The lad himself wasn’t older than twenty at the most. “I’m Cole,” the boy greeted, “I came to warn you. To help.”

“If you could _stop_ them too, that would be dandy,” Petrina chirped, chin jutting toward the bobbing torch lights snaking though the pines.

Cole thrust a bony finger to the rise over Haven. “The Elder One brought them here to kill you.”

“I figured that out. Why?”

“You took his mages.”

Petrina bristled. “The mages chose an alliance with the Inquisition over slavery to Tevinter.”

Cullen squinted at the rise as a gnarled form manifested atop the cliff. It had once been human, but half of its limbs were deformed and blackened. The rest of it was swathed in red lyrium crystals. At the creature’s side was a slighter figure, a man, brunette. Templar, no doubt, but impossible to recognize until they both turned their backs. Caught beneath a shaft of the full moon’s light, the man’s colors revealed his origins in a labyrinthine insignia that haunted Cullen’s nightmares. _Samson?_

“We need a plan,” Petrina murmured at his side, breaking his trance.

He studied the small town behind them. Much of it was unwalled. There were _two_ trebuchets. It wasn’t a fortress. Their men and women were drunk and scarcely in shape to fend off a Templar assault. Yet, if the trebuchets could hit the mountains at the right angle, they could bury the Templars in a landslide. “Get out there and hit that force with all you can,” he urged her. This would be a battle of attrition.

She bounded toward the group she’d rallied. Cassandra and Varric were both sober, but Dorian looked as though he’d been woken from a pleasant nap against silken sheets. When Cullen looked for Cole, the boy had vanished. Shouldering his shield, Cullen headed toward the soldiers mulling near the gates. Past them, he noticed several robed figures strapping on leather cuirasses and readjusting staff blades. A shaking hand unsheathed his blade as he bellowed his orders to the searching gazes thrown his direction. The flap of blue sateen served as a momentary distraction, then a deafening echo of flame cracked on the night. Bowstrings snapped. Steel whispered against leather. Red assaulted his nostrils. Motion blurred in his periphery and he charged toward the nearest flash of crimson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say Leliana positive? I meant that I adore her with all my bitter, cynical heart. Also, there is no way Cullen recognized Samson at that distance. You are liars, Bioware! As a citizen of a mountainous state, I can safely tell you… that’s not how perspective works. But I get it… storytelling purposes and all that jazz. “All that jazz” is technical legal jargon for “it’s fiction, Lady, quit being so detail-oriented.”
> 
> I'm officially cleared to sit at the end of July for my state's bar exam. Got the email, ironically, in my school's bar supplement course. About crapped myself because... IT'S HAPPENING. But I remember more of first and second year than I thought I would. I can do it. Alaska's score is higher than ours. xD I am learning, though, for every insufferable question I get wrong (I learned long ago that I'm not as smart as I think I am... first year has a way of knocking the ego clean out of you).


	11. Fire and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sealing the Breach has attracted unwanted attention from the Elder One. He marches on Haven with an army of Templars, warped and twisted with red lyrium, to reclaim what he'd thought lost: the anchor Petrina's left hand now bears.

Haven didn’t have walls, not like the cities in the Free Marches. Most Marcher cities were built upon the bones of Tevinter occupation from a time before Petrina or, likely, most of her ancestry was born. But the walls were tall and strong there, edged in black brass and stretching skyward against sea-salted winds and sapphire heavens. Haven, as Cullen promised her, was a far cry even from the walls that fringed her family’s estates. There were the stone walls bounding the property from the wilds, but nothing else. Wooden spikes had been rammed hard into the dikes adorning the lake’s shore. Once, that had been farmland. In better days, those spikes would’ve defended the town against intruders by impaling the horses of unwary riders. _Focus, Petra, unless you want to die._ Petrina rocked back on her heels as she surveyed her companions. Dorian alone was the one she feared for, if only because he’d refused her last invitation to practice fighting Southern Templars. She was used to being at a disadvantage in battle, as were most female warriors, but this was different from sheer size or strength. With the addition of magic, there was another danger in the form of the Templars’ spell-purges.

“Never thought I’d have to see _another_ burning town,” Varric breathed into the silence.

Petrina shook out her arms. “Dorian, have you ever fought a Southern Templar before?”

“I can safely say that I have not had that pleasant experience, no,” Dorian admitted. The enormity of her question seemed to sink into him, given the widening of his pupils.

“We don’t know if they can purge,” Cassandra remarked.

“I’d bet my life on them being able to spell purge,” Petrina said, sucking at her teeth. “Using lyrium, Templars neutralize all traces of magic in an immediate area. It hurts and knocks the wind clean from you, to say nothing of how much lyrium you’ll need to recover. Don’t get hit.”

“Marvelous,” Dorian grumbled.

“Chin up, Cousin.” She meant it in jest, but her arm rattled as she elbowed him. To Varric and Cassandra, Petrina added, “We need to get to this trebuchet, make sure it holds against the assault long enough to get a shot at the mountain.”

“Then let’s get going,” Cassandra advised, unsheathing her blade and lifting her shield.

Together, the little group migrated towards the first trebuchet. Inquisition soldiers were holding out against the impending crush of red Templars sweeping over the frozen lake. As they drew close, Petrina realized the extent of the Templars’ transformations. Some were human, pasty faces hollow-cheeked and dead-eyed beneath hoods and helms. Scarlet irises peered back at her from the shadows of their headwear. Others were masses of flesh, bone, and red lyrium. Little more than beasts. Cleaving through them was a simple task, keeping her nerves steeled proved difficult. With each red Templar she felled, she found herself wondering if she’d find Harry’s rose quartz prayer beads dangling from one of those necks or red-tinted silvers peering back at her in lifeless surrender. They hadn’t found him. He never returned to Ostwick when his Order rebelled.

_Doesn’t mean anything._ But it did. Killing him would taint her as her magic and her Libertarian leanings hadn’t managed. Sweeping past the stretch of a long sword, she shoved her staff blade into the red Templar’s side. As he fell from her weapon, she glimpsed the colors on his back: emerald green and white mixed with gold. _Ostwick._ One nudge of her boot flipped his corpse. Relief flooded her as she gazed upon a stranger’s face. A crossbow bolt zipped past her shoulder, followed soon by a groan and the rustle of a body against the earth. She rotated to find Varric reloading Bianca.

“Feeling tired already, Firestarter?” he taunted, grinning back at her.

She rubbed at her forehead, scanning the area. Cassandra finished off the last of the red Templars around them. Inquisition soldiers set to work loading the trebuchet. Someone, a woman, threw a concerned look in Petrina’s direction. “Worship, perhaps you should stand back.”

Petrina inched closer as machinery groaned, the soldiers turning the trebuchet’s wheels to aim it. The sling was already loaded with shot. One flick of a wheel was all it took to send that rock careening skyward, toward the massive mountain that loomed over the Templars steadily marching toward Haven. She kept her eyes open as the rock collided with the mountainside. A roar filled the air as earth and snow careened down through vast forests of pine. Screams hit the night, some far too shrill to be human. White welled up against the black, and all went still as the last Templar’s torch was snuffed out.

A whoop rang out from the soldiers. Varric beamed up at Petrina. “I’d call that a victory, Firestarter!”

Her response lodged in her throat. A massive shadow fell over the area, followed by a deafening shriek. _Dragon?_ Puzzled, she tipped her head back. Against the black sky, she just glimpsed a dark chitinous form diving toward them. Heart chilling, she pursed her lips, an order at the tip of her tongue. Red fire spilled toward them. Someone tugged her back as the blast collided with the trebuchet. The force of the destruction sent her backwards. Cold needled her as she hit snow. “Today,” Dorian huffed next to her with a rustle of cloth and grit, “is now _well_ beyond making sense.”

“Shit!” Varric sputtered. “Who ordered the end of the damn world?”

Petrina sat up, clutching at her head in a vain attempt to keep it from spinning. She waited to stand until her surroundings were still once more. As the fog on her senses cleared, she realized that she and her companions were standing against a font of corpses at the base of a now-ruined trebuchet. _Colored fire. That dragon had colored fire._ Dragons didn’t have colored fire. _Only archdemons have colored fire._ She tucked that disturbing thought aside. Assuming they survived, there would be a chance to argue about the giant flying lizard later. A gauntleted hand hefted her to her feet.

“We need to get to the gates,” Cassandra said, hazel eyes pinning Petrina.

“Sounds good to me,” Petrina said, touching her forehead. One quick brush of her hand revealed a slight welt developing there from her fall. She kept behind her companions as they neared Haven’s gates. Cullen was waiting when they neared, ushering surviving soldiers and mages inside. He was shouting about the Chantry. Given that the Chantry was Haven’s only stone building, Petrina agreed with his assessment on that matter. Their only chance of survival lay in that monument to Andrastian arrogance.

_Always with the stupid Chantry._ Cullen’s exasperated irises found hers as the last of the soldiers drifted past him. “At this point,” he said, “just make them fight for it.” _Them_ meant the survivors in Haven.

An objection blistered in Petrina’s throat. Then an arrow darted past her shoulder, lodging in the log frame of an adjacent cabin. Rolling her eyes, she sent forth a tongue of flame toward the offending archer. The archer wailed as mage fire consumed her. Cullen headed toward the Chantry on that note. Petrina raked her tongue over her upper lip. Red Templars were already climbing into Haven, setting fire to its fragile wooden buildings. “Save all we can,” she called to her companions.

There weren’t many left to save, it turned out. An elven mage Petrina remembered as being rather pro-Circle due to dire Dalish circumstances as a child and the surly apothecary named Adan. The tavern maid Flissa. An Orlesian Templar named Lysette that Petrina knew only by name. A shady lad that was always trying to peddle his wares in direct competition with the blacksmith. Once he was pulled from the burning remnants of his building, the group marched for the Chantry. Petrina let the others fan out ahead of her as she stepped past the threshold to the warmth of fire and the reek of medicine on wounds, the hum of restorative magic. A tremor ran through her as visions of corpses and demon viscera flared behind her eyelids. Scrubbing at her cheeks, she searched the sea of faces for some sign of familiarity. Derrick Amell offered her a consoling nod as she passed him.

Somewhere in the multitudes, she noticed a set of black eyes tucked within a flushed face puckered against an ill-fitting Chantry brother’s cap. _Chancellor Roderick?_ Hunched at his side was that odd boy from earlier, Cole. It was then that Petrina noticed the plume of red against Roderick’s white robe. “He tried to stop a Templar.” She jumped as Cole materialized at her side. “The blade went deep. He’s going to die.”

Suppressing a groan, she thumbed at the welt on her forehead. He wasn’t a boy, that was for sure. _He’s not a demon. A spirit?_ His wide, pale eyes were fixed on her, and she couldn’t shake the disturbing notion that he was somehow looking _through_ her. Not just _through_ her, but seeing into her, all that lay past her miles of self-preservation and emotional distance. “You’re bright,” he said at last, “but there’s more… peridot irises with gentle devotion hewn into them as a warm, sturdy hand cradles your cheek. _Don’t lose yourself to them, Petra._ ”

Mouth drying, Petrina turned from him. _He’s a spirit. Compassion?_ She had no idea if such things existed. There was nothing compassionate about dredging up _that_ old regret. “He never blamed you,” Cole continued, “he wants you to be happy.”

“A bit late for that now, isn’t it?” she backlashed.

“Herald!”

For once, Petrina was grateful to hear that moniker from Cullen. He strode toward her, the relief on his face jarring. The pain in her chest reminded her to draw breath. “Our position isn’t good,” he muttered as he approached.

She scoffed, drawing him aside toward the shadow of one of the chantry’s last vacant doorways. “Could’ve fooled me,” she intoned, all traces of politeness gone. Her body ached from fighting those red monstrosities. The one comfort was that she’d conserved her lyrium potions well, this time. There were three left for whatever came next. _However long it takes them to slaughter me._

“That dragon has cut a path for that army,” Cullen went on, “they will kill everyone in Haven.”

Eyes closing, she nodded. “We’re overrun.” One trebuchet remained in Haven but hitting the Templars now would require burying the town. _Either way, we’re going to die._ She scraped her nail over her signet ring as her eyes opened toward the Chantry’s vibrant firelight. Everything was too bright. There were too many people in the building. Watching, listening, waiting to die or to slip through some unseen crack in the mortar to freedom, life.

“We’re dying,” Cullen agreed, his words sluggish in her ears, “but we can choose how. Many don’t get that choice.”

_Yes, like Ollie and Lydia._ “I know that,” she snapped.

He didn’t flinch at her outburst this time, probably because his patience was on much thinner ice. “We could turn the remaining trebuchet, cause one last slide,” he continued, brown eyes searching hers for _some_ sign of approval.

“And hopefully take out the Elder One with those things,” she mused.

“Chancellor Roderick can help.” Both Petrina and Cullen rotated to find Cole supporting a wheezing Roderick, hand clasped over his side. Someone had healed the gash, though it was plain that any damage had been done. “He wants to say it before he dies.”

“There _is_ a path,” Roderick said, “you wouldn’t know it unless you’ve made the summer pilgrimage as I have.”

A path out of Haven, he meant, out of the Frostbacks, past the Templars. Hope plumed in Petrina, the first she’d felt in a long while. “Won’t they follow us?” Cullen challenged Cole.

The spirit shook his head. “The Elder One just wants the Herald.”

Petrina’s past echoed at those words, dredging up old reminders of dank air and wine barrels, the rattle of anxious breathing. _“He wants you, Petra,”_ an apprentice whispered in the darkness of the Circle cellar, _“that’s all Wendell has ever wanted.”_

The Herald surveyed the masses huddled in the Chantry, crammed in like pickles in a jar. People she knew, more she didn’t, and those whose cause she’d championed for most of her tenure in that blighted Circle. People who hadn’t asked to die for her. People she’d tried to keep from dying for her because Maker knew she was up to her neck in life-debts. Ollie. Lydia. Countless others in the ruined Ostwick Circle.

_“So, you’re the Herald of Andraste,”_ Mother Giselle had chided Petrina in the Hinterlands, seemingly a lifetime ago now.

_“Not through any choice of mine.”_

_“We seldom have much choice in our fates, I’m afraid.”_ The Orlesian Revered Mother had just grinned, her complexion a warm brown as sunshine fluttered over the adjacent rooftops. She’d seemed a fool back then, but perhaps she was right about one thing.

_Regardless of what_ I _think, these people view me as their savior._ That was the whole reason Petrina insisted on killing the Fereldan Frostback, rather than letting them hurl their lives at it. She unleashed a stammering exhale. “If that thing is here for me,” she snarled, “I won’t go easy on it.”

The look Cullen threw her eviscerated any confidence she held in those words. It was a mixture of guilt, regret, and something she couldn’t place. “And when the mountain falls?” he asked, the compassion in his voice stinging her. She’d done nothing to earn his concern, that was for sure.

_He has a point. You’re going to die._ Grim certainty iced in her veins. _“Promise me you’ll come back,”_ Rowan ordered her before she headed for the Conclave, _“the Chantry doesn’t make prisoners of mages.”_ They often traded such promises, an echo of when her pride nearly drowned her that fateful summer. It was a joke. One couldn’t be a twin if the other was dead. _Who’s laughing now?_

Clearing her throat, she reached for her signet ring. Of all the people she’d expected to deliver this news, she never anticipated it would be _him_. Yet, for whatever reason, she was inclined to trust him. For all that they’d clashed, he’d never hurt her. He had seen her at her worst and never breathed a word to anyone else, sparing her that embarrassment. Thrusting the ring toward Cullen, she said, “I-if you get out of here, please deliver this to the University of Orlais. Lord Rowan Trevelyan, Department of History.”

The hand he extended to take the ring trembled against the ring. “Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line,” he urged, eyes unmoving from hers.

Massaging her naked finger, Petrina nodded. He broke eye contact to relay orders to the nearest clutch of soldiers. They jaunted past her into the night’s chill. Sacrifices to load the trebuchet. _Make this count._ Flexing her fingers evoked crisp snaps in her joints. In her periphery, she glimpsed Cole guiding Roderick toward the people clustering near the back of the Chantry. A moment later, footsteps pulsed at her back alongside the rustle of buckles and cloth. Petrina turned to find Dorian and Cassandra, Varric at their heels cranking another bolt into Bianca.

“Someone told us a story about you trying to take on the Elder One alone,” Dorian said, “and I insisted it was madness.”

“We’re going with you,” Cassandra deadpanned, “you’ll need help.”

Petrina tilted her head, certain she’d heard wrong. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as we’ll ever be,” Varric said, cocking Bianca, “so, let’s do this before the Seeker gets cold feet.”

Unfurling her staff, Petrina pushed past the Chantry doors into the freezing night. A gale pulled her braid back, knocking the air from her lungs. Ignoring the knife-like frosts, she headed onward. Red Templars dotted the streets. Much of Haven was barely recognizable now, reduced to blackened shells of timber. The air was thick with smoke and cold. She did her best to ignore the corpses, the sear of red lyrium against her nostrils.

What remained of the red Templars were simple enough to dispatch, though their persistence was unmatched even by their untainted counterparts. Those that lingered were relentless. She drowned them in flame. Cassandra kept at the front of the group, bashing and cutting her way through the red Templars. Varric and Dorian kept pace well, bolts and spells finding their marks. Petrina pushed forward with each corpse that fell, knowing too well that time wasn’t on their side. They had to keep the Elder One’s attention. _And somehow, you must make sure you don’t pull them down with you to this martyrdom you chose._

_Yes, martyrdom for a_ Chantry _organization._

_The Inquisition isn’t the Chantry._

_So you say._ Spinning on her heel, she brought her staff down as more Templars rushed up the slope toward her. They fell, writhing against her flames gnawing on their clothes, their skin, hair. She stepped past them as they went limp. The trebuchet yawned ahead, fringed in bodies. Bodies that wore green and amber.

_Damn it all._ Inching past the most recent additions to the Inquisition’s rising body count, Petrina slung her staff back over her shoulder. The trebuchet hadn’t been aimed. The soldiers managed to load shot in its sling. Throwing her entire weight on the lower wheel, Petrina began inching the trebuchet toward the snow-capped peaks over Haven. “They’ve got backup, Firestarter!” Varric called.

Downing a lyrium potion for luck, Petrina fade-stepped past one of the red Templar beasts. It was a gnarled thing, back hunched and studded in red lyrium crystals, eyes wild and animalistic. Shoving her staff blade into its back, she spun in time to avoid the whisk of a rogue’s dagger. As she feinted past the next blow, fire poured from her fingers and the rogue dropped with an inhuman wail. Weight pulsed at her side. She fade-stepped forward, avoiding the crushing blow of a war hammer. Cassandra stepped toward the encroaching brute, shield slamming into the man’s face. He was too big and slow to be any use against Cassandra. Still, he lasted longer than Petrina expected.

More troubling than the brute were the Templars crawling toward the trebuchet, flies to a corpse. _Did the avalanche kill none of them?_ Ignoring the spike of despair, she brought her staff down hard on the ground. Flame fanned out around her, the heat scorching past snows and muddying frigid earth. Her targets shrieked as flame engulfed them. Staff whirling in her hands, she skimmed the area for good measure. For now, all was clear. Shouldering her weapon, she resumed her task of cranking the trebuchet toward the mountain.

As the peak loomed up against the trebuchet’s line of sight, someone screamed her name. Red blurred in the corner of her vision. Raw force knocked her back from the trebuchet into freezing snows and grit. Spitting loam from her mouth, she scrambled to her feet as a sword fell where she’d been. Rotating, she glimpsed the source of her fall: a monstrous giant entirely swathed in red lyrium. _What the hell?_

Red Templars spread out around her, though they were far more concerned with Cassandra, Dorian, and Varric. For whatever reason, this red lyrium giant had trained its focus on Petrina. _Not a giant_ , she corrected as one of its massive arms swung for her, _a behemoth._ Sliding past the attempted blow, she hurled a ball of fire toward the Templars assaulting her companions. The blast felled most of the Templars, though when she readied a second attack, ground rattled beneath her and red lyrium spires swelled against the ground, blocking her path ahead. Green sizzled at her left hand. A gurgling roar emanated from the behemoth. Cursing her lack of foresight, she sprinted past the behemoth as it raised a crystal-clad arm. Against the night’s soft illumination, the creature’s crystalline hide gleamed like blood.

Part of her wondered what poor soul was trapped within the red. She didn’t want to contemplate such things, but in that odd future, Cullen said red lyrium was like a parasite. _Someone important to the Elder One, maybe?_ Yet, not too important given the Templar’s reduction to little more than a killing machine.

_Focus._ “Firestarter!” Varric yelled past the fence of red lyrium spires.

Petrina dodged another swing the behemoth threw in her direction. “Get out of here!” she screamed back.

“Are you mad!?” Cassandra barked, ramming her blade through an archer’s chest.

“They want me anyhow!” Petrina insisted, staff slamming into the ground to pour flame over the behemoth. Dismay washed over her as it licked off the monstrosity’s facets. _I have_ bad _luck_ , she noted. Cursing her luck, she slid right as the beast drew its arm back for another blow.

“She’s right!” Dorian snapped at last, to her relief.

“We can’t leave her!” Cassandra objected.

Attention fixed on the behemoth, Petrina mustered her energy as she brought her staff down. Lightning flashed against the night in a blitz of white. Red lyrium cracked around her. The creature raised its injured arm, alongside the leg closest to her. She fade-stepped as its massive leg fell. Ground wobbled beneath her. As she turned, she just glimpsed Varric and Dorian tugging Cassandra toward the Chantry. _“It must be nice to be so certain,”_ Cassandra had grumbled to Petrina once she revealed her thoughts on the Maker. They weren’t friends, exactly. _You trust her, though. Odd that she was so willing to risk her hide for yours. She was eager to behead you the moment you woke._

More lightning lashed from Petrina’s fingers. Thus far, it seemed her magic could nullify whatever irritation the behemoth’s coating had on her mark. Another crack spider-veined up the behemoth’s arm, and there was a moment of quiet before he hefted the arm skyward. As he brought the limb down, it shattered, and a roaring cry hit her ears. Livid, the behemoth charged toward her, a spiked orb of red lyrium forging on its remaining arm. Fade-stepping past it, she stumbled as that massive arm dropped, red lyrium studding the ground where she’d been. The looseness of her grip sent the staff flying from her hand. Breathless, she rolled as the beast readied another blow for her. In the thick shadows and the clouds starting to fog the heavens, she couldn’t discern her staff’s crisp dark form. _Damn thing was a loan anyway, and a poor substitute._ That observation, a perpetual reminder that she was a _long_ way from home, brought her no consolation now as she stood on shaking legs to face the behemoth.

Wind snarled her hair, yanking at her loosening braid. Energy thrummed in her veins. Enough for one more pour of magic, unless this damn thing refused to die. Lightning listed between her fingers. She scanned the creature as it staggered toward her in a bumbling charge. As her reflection shimmered in scarlet, she jogged between its legs. There was a fine fissure developing in the block of crystal that would, ordinarily, have served as the creature’s head. She sent a jolt of lightning over her shoulder. Her attack plinked off its facets. Sensing her plan, the behemoth spun and sent another burst of lyrium spires toward her. Wending past the stinging scarlet, she paused her sprint to chug her last lyrium potions to restore her depleting energy. The lyrium did nothing for the sweat caking her back, though. She brought her hands up as she rotated toward the behemoth, focusing on the small crack that she knew was there just above what would’ve been a human’s brow ridge. White burst as her palms met, a javelin of lightning running right for the behemoth’s head. What little energy her lyrium potions restored was funneled into that spell. The behemoth tried to dodge, but its limbs were too heavy to match her grace. It shrieked as the blast collided with its head. Red lyrium shattered against the night, the miniscule crystals gleaming like rubies as they hit the snow and earth.

Breath heaving from her lungs in gasps, she pressed her hands to her thighs to draw a gulping sigh. As her head swung back toward the trebuchet, all shreds of hope that she’d survive this battle withered. An unnatural shriek echoed in the skies. Petrina pushed back a wad of bile as the pungent stench of red lyrium hit her nostrils. A gigantic reptilian form swept down from the skies, coated in black chitin, its massive head tipping skyward in a thunderous cry. Dust plumed as it landed, joining a froth of snow. Another shrieking roar trailed from the creature.

“Enough.”

An unnatural chill seized Petrina’s spine. Slow, she pivoted toward the voice. It spoke in the language most of Southern Thedas used these days: the common tongue. The accent stirred memories of parlors swathed in blue smoke and sweat-soaked sateen caused by unending tropical heat. The creature before her looked nothing like any Tevene person she’d ever met, but that was to be expected when one willingly ingested red lyrium. Red crystals protruded from most of his face and the bulk of his skin, what little of it wasn’t blackened and skeletal. He’d been human once, given his form, the width of his eyes. A hungry grin latched onto her as he approached, and she noted a metallic glint against one of his palms. A brass orb hovered over one of his blackened palms, fizzing and sputtering with green, then red as it reacted to her mark.

Power stung her as the beast approached, orb in hand. Peridot flashed, then white flared behind her eyelids. Knees buckling, she clutched at her marked hand as it sizzled. Colorful curses burst from the beast, all in Tevene, not that she knew any of them. His dialect was foreign. “Whatever you are,” she ground out through her teeth as she recovered from the orb’s grasp on her hand, “I’m not afraid.”

“Words mortals often hurl at the darkness,” he sniffed, regarding her with wild, grey eyes. “The anchor is ruined. You’ve tainted it with your stumbling.”

_The anchor?_ “You know what this thing on my hand is.”

“Girl, I once breached the Golden City in the name of another seeking the tales of the gods. I found nothing but dead whispers and vacant thrones.” Stashing the orb in a mottled pouch on his belt, he snatched her marked hand as its glow dulled, hefting her skyward. She twitched against him, disdain settling in her stomach from the nauseating reek of red lyrium and death emanating from him. “You will all tremble and cower before the might of Corypheus, the Elder One, the new god.”

His grip was ironclad on her arm. “What is this thing meant to do?” she challenged.

“It was meant for your betters, to grant me passage into the Fade so that I might restore this blighted world to a better age.”

“Slavery to you and your pathetic followers, you mean.”

“It matters not what you think. The anchor is useless. You will die here.”

He threw her. She fell hard against the trebuchet’s base. Wincing at the pain lancing up her shoulder, she blinked furiously against the dots clogging her vision. Metal glinted against the snows. Hand wrapping around the hilt of a blade, she hefted it from the muck, revealing it to be a sleek rapier. She raised the rapier as Corypheus and his dragon advanced. Wood grain pressed at her back as she drew back against the trebuchet. Amber glowed past Corypheus’s shoulder, arcing against the sky’s black velvet. Understanding ricocheted through her. _Cullen. They made it._ The Inquisition was past the tree line.

“Your betters have said that to me many times, and I’ve outlived them all.” Blade falling from her hands, she spun and shoved her foot hard into the trebuchet’s wheel. She ran as the trebuchet launched the boulder into the mountain’s face. Snow and rock hissed as they tumbled down toward Haven. Her feet carried her toward the path leading out of town, but the unyielding strength of a tree root snagged her foot and wrenched her forward. With a scream, she fell into nothingness before slamming hard into frostbitten ground. Over her head, snow and ice buried the gap she’d slipped through. Pain ripped up her side, alongside the scalding verdant of her hand. Slow breaths trailed from her lungs. Lids heavy, she let them drop as voices filled her ears, both concerned and irritated.

_“It’s your fault, Cat, you’re the eldest!”_ a younger Gregory accused against the shade-flecked summer daylight.

_“_ My _fault!? You were supposed to watch them!”_

_“You’re the one who wants to rule the bannorn! What sort of bann lets her sister drown!?”_

_“Enough!”_ Elise thundered then, stepping between them to throw venomous glares on them.

Young lungs strained against sour lake water. Mud pressed at fine chiffon. _Move._ Presently, Petrina swallowed, flinching at the ache that spiraled up her torso. Her eyes snapped open to stone and shadow. _You’re not dead yet, Petra._ _Move._ Exhaling a white cloud into the surrounding darkness, Petrina inched into a sitting position. Agony lashed at her side. Wincing, she pressed her good hand to her side. _Come on, what is that stupid spell you used on Cullen?_

The memory manifested at a trudge, bringing with it the familiar nag of Lydia’s death. Golden light spilled from Petrina’s fingers, and she sighed as magic soothed sore muscles and bruised skin. Once the pain subsided, she stood and let her hand’s lingering glow illuminate the path ahead. She was in a cave. From the rusting strips of steel on the ground and molding bits of wood slung between them, this had once been a mine. Using the wall as her guide, she moved forward. The path widened ahead of her into a cavern. Her mark snapped up at her wrist as she entered the cavern. Cold cut to her bone as she stepped further into the cavern. Cries hit her ears, a din of mournful sobs. Sorrow chewed at her resolve, dredging up rain-soaked nights and jealous, childish rage over a birthday forgotten for an older sister’s chance at prestige. Then came the patter of a child’s fists on a closet door, laughter harsh and mocking. _“Leave her in there and see if she gets over it by morning! She has to stop crying sooner or later!”_ a Templar taunted in an obnoxious Fereldan accent. _Demons_ , Petrina’s sense urged. Slicing past the grief beckoning at her thoughts, she caught the familiar and unsightly forms of ragged robes and teeth as despair demons swelled around her. Mustering what little of her strength lingered, she fisted flames in her other hand.

The anchor beat her to the punch. Peridot burst from her palm, dissolving the despair demons to black-green shards. Shaking it out as the pins and needles went silent against her skin, she surveyed her marked hand as the acidic green dimmed. Against her better judgment, she brought forth a small orb of white light to her good hand. The whorls of green seemed darker against her skin now, but perhaps that was a trick of the light and her exhaustion.

_You need to move. Worry about this stupid thing later, preferably when you are warm, safe, and_ alive. She pushed on through the caves until fresh air wafted into the dank. Leaden legs led her into a night ensconced in the white blur of snowfall. Pushing her hands up under her arms, she moved into the snows. This far up the tree line the fresh snows were reinforcing existing snow pack, riding up against her knees. Her movements, sluggish from earlier, were slower with the snow to clog her motions. As a girl, she always wished she’d had Cat or Elise’s height, inherited courtesy of their father. It seemed like such good fun, being tall and lording it over others. Now, Petrina wished for that height to lengthen her strides.

_You’ll never find them, you know_ , her doubt sneered. She brushed that thought aside. Yet, the white seemed unrelenting. Every black pine she passed looked the same. The snowfall covered her tracks, and likely had done the same for the Inquisition’s. Hunching against the cold leaching at what little of her stamina remained, she pushed ahead. For warmth, she started dredging up just a bit of fire to her hands with her magic. It did no good against the relentless winds. The last of her braid fell loose against her shoulders as another gust rumbled down the hill. The snow against her knees became an ocean, weighing her down. Every breath became a struggle. _I can’t stop. Maker, I can’t stop moving._

Black fringed her vision as exhaustion pressed at her shoulders. Sweat caked the back of her tunic, a dark irony given how _cold_ she was. _I promised Rowan._ Her knees buckled as her boot caught a rock beneath the white. Stumbling, she curled against her jerkin and cloak, breaths hard as they ripped from her wind-chapped lips. _I promised him._ Her lashes fluttered as another freezing gale wrenched at her hair, stung her cheeks. The black around her vision deepened as she curled against her torso for whatever warmth her body could provide.

_“So, you’re leaving,”_ Rowan had drawled at her that fateful evening she made her decision. _“For this Conclave the Divine has planned.”_

_“I have no choice,”_ she’d told him, so confident, assured. It had seemed so correct then, a way out. That was all they’d wanted in the Circles: a way out of their towers, past the walls, the Templars, the Seekers, the Chantry. _“First Enchanter Serrion asked for me.”_

_“You know the Chantry will either make you Tranquil or kill you, yes?”_ he’d prompted, his severity sudden and unnerving.

_“They are my people. I don’t expect you to understand, but I can’t leave them.”_

_“Promise me you’ll come back. The Chantry doesn’t make prisoners of mages.”_ He’d uttered those words with a pinky outstretched, a childish request. One they’d often invoked to enforce meaningless vows. It was an odd thing that now all she remembered was how tightly his finger had clung to hers, the fervency in those signature Trevelyan silvers.

One coherent thought slipped through her head before the cold pulled her under: _I’m sorry, Rowan._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, Petra, I bet Orlais is lovely this time of year, all that snow... xD


	12. Not in Vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of the Inquisition rallies in the aftermath of Corypheus's assault, holding a collective breath that the unrelenting snows will pass and their Herald will materialize once more to deliver them from certain death to the wilds. Wrought with guilt for both his past and present, Cullen lingers at the edge of camp, certain he's sent Petrina to her death. Cole provides unexpected wisdom in between the tide of regret and guilt-filled inaction.

Rubbing warmth into the cold pressing at his gloved hands, Cullen turned from the white cloaking Haven. He could glimpse the town’s remnants from where he stood, peeking past interlocking pine branches. All he could keep thinking about was the plea in Petrina’s eyes as she pressed her signet ring into his hand, how her hand shook, how that red mouth of hers dipped downward as she drank in the meaning of staying behind to strike back at the Elder One. His ears kept replaying their conversations, every harsh word they’d traded during and after she returned with the mages from Redcliffe. _“You need to work on your delivery.”_ His mouth ticked upward as he recalled how soft she’d appeared caught beneath Haven’s pale alpine sunlight, the flush in her cheeks. Past that, there was the recent ground he’d broken en route to Redcliffe, the gentle chipping they had both done at each other’s towering walls, their promises to try and understand each other.

_It doesn’t matter anymore._ She was gone. Buried beneath a curtain of snow. Her brother Rowan, by all accounts, was nothing like her. He was lighthearted and mischievous. He’d gotten kicked out of the Templars at a young age and was shunted promptly into a finishing school before going onto the University of Orlais. Part of Cullen couldn’t imagine Petrina having a twin, much less one so carefree and cheerful. She was disciplined, driven, almost to the point of forgoing all else. Mia would’ve laughed if she heard that. _“Yes, I know_ no one _like that.”_

The little things filtered through Cullen’s head too. He recalled the ethereal glow that overtook Petrina’s features as she healed the gaping wound in his side, her stern insistence on inspecting his wound. She saved his life, despite all her rants against Templars, against him. _Yes, she saved your life and you sent her to die._

“Commander, you should come eat.”

Cassandra’s voice lanced through his reverie. Swallowing, he shook his head, weight shifting between his boots to staunch the stiffness developing in his legs. “You were with her,” he said, despising the smallness of his voice, “what happened down there?”

“A monstrosity of red lyrium, larger and stronger than the others, divided her from us. She told us to run.” Cassandra cleared her throat. “I refused, but it soon became clear that we couldn’t get through to her. The thing put up a wall of red lyrium spires between us.”

Digesting those words, Cullen craned his head toward Cassandra. She caught her nose between her thumb and forefinger, emitting a nasal exhale. “I would’ve stayed behind for her had I the choice, Cullen. You know that.”

“It shouldn’t have been her,” Cullen said at last, tugging at the mantle around his shoulders. He should’ve been the one to die in Haven. He was the commander of the Inquisition’s forces, a man with countless atrocities and deaths in his wake. Petrina had been the Herald of Andraste to everyone, regardless of the truth those beliefs held. _She saved my life and I sent her to die._

While he hadn’t been fond of her when they met on that mountain, he’d come to like her bluntness and her rigid practicality in decision making. Past those walls, she was much more than a mage bruised and scarred in the Circle. She was a woman with regrets about the death in her past, not too unlike himself. While they’d played different roles in the Circle, it had shackled and hurt her in ways that mirrored his own injuries. _“And Cullen, thank you.”_ The sincerity in her voice, raw and somehow untarnished, hit him with a fresh wave of guilt as it echoed in his thoughts. She’d told him that he hadn’t been what she expected, and if he was being honest, she wasn’t what he’d expected either.

“Get some food,” Cassandra urged, a million miles away. Her hand fell against his arm, and he just felt the weight past his armor and mail. “You will need to keep your strength up. She wouldn’t want us to sit here waiting for the red Templars or the Elder One to find us.”

An order clung to the undercurrent of that last sentence. Teeth clenching, Cullen remained where he stood as Cassandra’s footfalls retreated toward the camp they’d made between a set of looming cliffs. A shelter from the impending snowfall. His hand drifted toward his pocket, cold flecking his fingers as they ran over the signet ring nestled there. Tracing the Trevelyan owl with his thumb pad, he quelled the urge to curse skyward. It was about more than his regrets for Kirkwall and Ferelden. Somehow, this mess of interaction he had with _her_ had morphed into something else that he couldn’t name. He’d never know what she was like past all those walls now, though. She was lost to him, to the Inquisition.

“Light filters through tall, strong trees. Fire bursts in isolated darkness, borne of anger at a forgotten birthday. _‘Hide here. They won’t find you.’_ Shouts, anger, magic, flaming swords cast in steel.”

Cullen pivoted toward those words. Cole, that odd boy who helped Roderick, was peering back from beneath the shadow of his enormous hat. He wasn’t a normal young man. Perhaps a mage, yet the sage-like nature of his words suggested otherwise. “What are you talking about?” Cullen asked at last. The lad spoke in riddles, near as the former Templar could tell it.

Cole’s pupils widened a fraction then. “Soft words, kindness I don’t deserve. Different from that monster with the blue eyes.” He jutted his chin toward the path yawning into the snows frothing white against the night.

Understanding plummeted in Cullen. _Petrina._ She was alive. “Can you take me to her?”

“It’s hard,” Cole admitted, “she’s tired, and her mark is too bright to get through and reach her.”

Exasperation wearing on his patience, Cullen gripped the young man’s shoulders and gave Cole a light shake. “I’ll find her. Where is she?”

“You’ll see the teal in the white. She always wears it because her mother said that no child of hers would ever become a mage.”

Thanking the Maker Petrina had sense in her stubborn skull, Cullen lurched toward the snows. A biting gale tore at his hair and cheeks, whisking snowflakes over him. Drinking in the cold, he squinted past the sea of white. Past the encampment, all was silent but for the baying winds. He pushed forward, throat shrinking as gooseflesh rose against his legs once the snows settled against his knees. The sheer amount of white everywhere was disheartening. It didn’t take long for discouragement to pool in his veins with each passing step. Cold could kill easily. In his tenth year, he’d found a poor soul blue and curled into a fetal position against one of the large gnarled oak trunks outside town. That man had been dead for weeks. He’d gotten lost on the road back from Denerim in the snows. The lesson had imprinted itself into Cullen’s young mind instantly: don’t wander in a whiteout.

Migrating through the frosts now caking his pants, Cullen swore as he scanned the area. It took him a moment to notice the distinct flap of teal velvet, almost blending into the adjacent shadows cast by ancient pines. Tearing the mantle from his shoulders, he jogged toward the lone snatch of color in the gloom. She was curled against herself in the snows, still but for the slight breaths rattling through her small frame. Tearing his mantle from his shoulders, he draped it around her shoulders. At the brush of warmth, she jolted, peering up at him in open bewilderment. Wind-chapped lips moved to speak, but blood beaded against them instead and she folded them against each other, clutching at his mantle. _She can’t walk back._

Cullen reached for her. She didn’t light him on fire when he hefted her from the frosts. Her body rattled in his arms with persistent tremors, a wan attempt at staving off death. _Maker, she’s so cold._ He rubbed warmth at her upper arm, praying to the Maker she’d live. The Inquisition would not survive without its Herald. Her head drooped against his shoulder as her breaths deepened. Keeping her close, he navigated the path his tracks left in the recent snowfall toward the Inquisition’s encampment. The first person he met on his way in was Fiona.

One curt nod toward an adjacent tent sent Cullen plodding toward one of the few medical areas in the camp not brimming with corpses or wounded. He laid Petrina down on one of the nearest cots. Fiona set to work gathering blankets. Another mage soon joined her. An Amell, Cullen noted, the man who had been at the gates with Vivienne mere hours earlier when chaos erupted. “Felicity always laughed at me for pursuing spirit healing,” the Amell teased weakly to Fiona, golden light wending between his fingers, “wonder what she’d think of this.”

“I imagine she’s rather preoccupied with darkspawn these days, Derrick,” Fiona admitted, smoothing out layers of blankets over Petrina. Cullen stood back from them, eagerly leaching whatever warmth remained in the cramped area.

_Her brother._ If he was honest, he’d never spoken to Felicity Amell much in Ferelden. He hadn’t the right to know her name. She’d been so distant, ethereal, and not very inclined toward the attentions of men. _Any_ of them. The few that managed to catch her attentions were always women, and it would’ve been inappropriate even if he had been born female. She was his charge in those days. He was bound to protect her, to kill her if she became an abomination.

_“You could never understand.”_ Felicity Amell withered away to Petrina’s pale visage, her hair fanning out around her in a dark curtain. Someone jostled past Cullen, a mage in deep emerald robes. A healer, judging from her prompt slinging of orders, the supply of lyrium bottles in the crate tucked under her arm. He moved back as Fiona and Derrick set to work. Magic rustled around Cullen as the mages began the tedium of healing. With great reluctance, he stalked out of the tent. A grateful sigh tore from him as he glimpsed the black skies slashing past the cloud cover above. The snows, at long last, were quieting.

Amber firelight lit the encampment housing the remaining Inquisition members. Most of the people mulling about hadn’t grasped that the woman he’d pulled from the snow was the purported Herald of Andraste. Varric saw everything, though. The dwarf sauntered toward Cullen with a dour expression. “Curly,” Varric greeted, “I take it Firestarter is alive if you’re out here.”

“She is, barely.”

“Yeah,” Varric agreed with a low whistle. He ran a gloved hand over his forehead. “I don’t suppose she said anything about that Elder One.”

Suspicion curdled in Cullen. “Do you know something?” he prompted.

“Not so loud, Curly.” Varric slanted a few quick looks over his shoulder before continuing. “I might have seen that _thing_ before, and maybe I know someone who can help.”

There was one person Varric hadn’t accounted for in his talks with Cassandra, that being the very mage she’d gone to Kirkwall seeking. A mage that dredged up recollections of red lyrium on night air and the steady groan of bronze statues springing to life in garish visions of Tevinter luxury and opulence. _“It’s never easy, is it?”_ Hawke had groused that night to Varric as the first statue sprang toward them. How they’d all survived, Cullen no longer remembered. He didn’t want to remember, if he was honest.

While he hadn’t been privy to Hawke and Varric’s friendship beyond their interactions in the Gallows, Cullen knew the pair ventured beyond Kirkwall to perform mercenary jobs for anyone paying enough. They’d gone to the Deep Roads to earn back the Amell family manor and save Hawke’s family from poverty. That was how her brother became a Grey Warden. Wherever there were darkspawn or dragons about in or around Kirkwall, there was Hawke, ready and eager to fight them.

Whatever the Elder One was, he certainly wasn’t human. Given how Hawke liked to meddle, Cullen was willing to bet she had something to do with that _creature._ So, Cullen folded his arms and murmured, “It’s her, isn’t it?”

“Rivaini is going to kill me, but yes.” Toying with the collar of his duster, Varric scuffed his boots at the snow and mud between them. “Don’t tell the Seeker. I just sent word as soon as we were out of Haven.”

Cassandra _demanded_ information, any information, on Hawke’s whereabouts from Varric. He’d insisted, under oath, that he didn’t know where she or her pirate lover had gone once Kirkwall fell. Cassandra took him at his word. Cullen fought down a curse. This was going to backfire in a bad way. Knowing his luck, he’d be caught in the crossfire. Varric and Cassandra were at each other’s throats most days, but this omission could lead to Cassandra killing the dwarf.

“You sent word for information?” Cullen needled.

“I asked for her help. I know you didn’t always get along with her, but I might need your help in keeping her safe, Curly.” Varric ran a hand over his disheveled half-ponytail. “From the Chantry, I mean. They haven’t exactly been kind to her.”

“I doubt you’ll need to worry about that,” Cullen said, lightening a tad, “Hawke isn’t the sort that needs protecting.”

“Firestarter will intervene, I suppose. She’s stubborn.” Mirth glinted in Varric’s grey-hazel eyes. “You should’ve seen her up against that dragon, Curly. She might be small, but she packs a punch.”

Startled by the chuckle that burst from him, Cullen cleared his throat. “We fought Venatori together in Redcliffe. Petrina is impressive.”

“She’s downright lethal.” Varric rubbed at his jawline. “A shame we didn’t have her with us in Kirkwall.”

Recalling his dire dream of Petrina on one of the whipping posts in the Gallows, Cullen let the subject die. She’d have been made Tranquil in Kirkwall, or worse. “I take it no one else knows about this,” he added to the dwarf.

“No,” Varric agreed, all mirth evaporating. “House Amell is scattered, Curly. They’re not Hawke’s family, anyway. Not really. They know nothing about her. I looked out for her when Carver went off to the Wardens, when her mother was murdered, and when Rivaini fled Kirkwall.” Resentment simmered in his broad face. “I wanted to protect Hawke, help her. Instead, all I did was lead the poor kid into danger.”

“She’s a grown woman.”

“She’ll always be that bright-eyed kid I met in Kirkwall. And now I’m about to drag her back into danger.” Varric sighed, locking his hands behind him. “Anyway, when Firestarter wakes up, tell her Chuckles wants to speak with her soon. Looks like I’m not the only one with secrets.”

_No_ , Cullen concurred as the dwarf retreated with a prompt turn of his heel. Varric was sly and crafty, but Solas was more so in many ways. No one knew where they stood with the elven apostate. The rustle of cloth at Cullen’s back rotated him toward the tent as its main flap swept back. Derrick Amell trudged out with a prim nod. “She’ll live, Commander. You found her in time. She even gets to keep all of her limbs and digits,” he said, wiggling his fingers to emphasize the last part. Studying him this close, the family resemblance was plain between him and Felicity: foxlike faces, freckles over the nose and cheeks, those angled eyes.

“I’m grateful,” Cullen said, turning his attention toward the ground. “We all are.”

“Felicity wrote me after she headed to Weisshaupt,” Derrick answered. “She mentioned you.”

Lead welled in Cullen’s legs. He didn’t want to discuss this. Though that wound had long since healed, the regret over how he’d treated her, and her fellow mages had yet to mend. He blamed the searing headaches and teeth-clenching nightmares for dredging up memories that were a decade old. “I’m sure she did.”

“I must admit, I was expecting someone bigger and meaner.”

“Pet—the _Herald_ —said the same thing,” Cullen stammered, cheeks burning at his lack of formality. It struck him then that he’d used her name when speaking to Varric earlier. _Damned dwarf should’ve corrected me._

“I imagine she did. Lady Trevelyan has always been very… forthright.”

“You knew her?”

“We heard House Trevelyan manifested a mage child when we were apprentices in our Circles, well, minus dear Georgie in Kirkwall who had undergone her Harrowing by that point and had _other_ things on her mind.” Complexion turning ashen in the mesh of moonlight and the fire’s reddish hum, Derrick drew a long breath. “I didn’t meet her until Redcliffe, though I knew of her political leanings. Not that our little clubs were anything close to _real_ politics, mind you. I envied her because she still had a family outside the Circle, one nearby. I didn’t realize later that two of her siblings were Templars, the bulk of her extended family tied to the Chantry.”

“I’d have thought you’d be more moderate, as you were in Vivienne’s Circle,” Cullen remarked.

“Felicity said the same in one of her letters.” Derrick clicked his tongue. “Your tune changes when you hear about acts of sheer savagery against mages elsewhere, in a Circle that housed your elder sister.”

Having never needed to pay heed to the nobility, Cullen never bothered searching the records in Kirkwall for the eldest Amell. He knew the stories. The girl was pulled publicly to the Gallows, her mother in tow, weeping, tearing at her hair. Two other mages were born, each sent to different Circles per Chantry law. Lord Amell took his remaining children back to Antiva, but it did little good. They too manifested magic. On the creation of the last heir’s phylactery, House Amell fell from power. That was what the rumors said, at any rate. No one knew what became of Lady Amell. Hawke never supplied the tale, and Cullen hadn’t known her well enough or in decent enough a manner to ask.

“She escaped when your Knight-Commander began ordering the Rite on dissenters,” Derrick continued. “Georgie was rather shocked to find that the house had fallen to one of our common cousins, but that’s how things go. She was always more traditional.”

“I’m glad she survived,” Cullen said. _Praise Andraste for small mercies._

Derrick smirked, though it didn’t reach his verdant irises. “You know, Commander, if this war has taught me anything it’s that whatever doesn’t kill us pushes us forward, forces us to look at things in a new light, but cannot change who we are; we remain who we are, regardless of our beliefs.”  He clapped a firm hand on Cullen’s pauldron before heading off toward the other mages.

_“You’re responsible for your behavior, not anyone else,”_ Mia used to say whenever Cullen grew irritated during their chess games and made foolish decisions. She was right, of course. Mia was always right. With a gaping yawn, Cullen stashed that train of thought as he stalked off to snatch a few hours of sleep before the others insisted on strategizing.

* * *

 

_Dahlia Hawke strode past the Gallows gates, blue eyes rolling as they noticed Cullen perched in the white heat near the doors leading to Knight-Commander Meredith’s office. “Don’t speak to the mages,” he said._

_“Your commander summoned_ me _,” Hawke rebutted. Varric was at her back, discomfort written into his expression. Isabela and the redheaded guard-captain, Aveline, were also there, each sporting similar looks. Aveline seemed downright annoyed. Given recent accusations about her_ coddling _her husband, a fellow member of the guard, her irritation was reasonable._

_Cullen ushered the group on inside. He lingered in the hallway and swore he would do his best not to listen. The instant Hawke’s voice rose, all control went out the window. “Are you_ threatening _the Champion of Kirkwall?” she challenged._

_“My dear, girl,” Meredith cooed back, “I don’t have to threaten a dangerous apostate.”_

_“You can’t prove anything.”_

_“You’re from House Amell and bear the name of a man who escaped the Ferelden Circle. I can infer_ a lot _from that alone.”_

_“You don’t scare me.”_

_Menacing laughter trailed from the commander. “It’s not_ me _you should fear, dearest,” Meredith hummed, “the wrath of the Maker is merciless. The Exalted Marches proved that much.”_

_Wood clattered as the study door thundered open. Cullen schooled his features as Hawke lurched past him in a huff, her companions trailing behind. “Don’t do anything rash,” Aveline urged, “Maker knows Carver would kill us if anything happened to you now.”_

_“Maker knows Carver never gave two shits for anyone but his sorry, mundane ass. Brat never knew how good he had it,” Hawke snarled._

_Whatever Aveline’s response, Cullen didn’t catch it. They were already outside the main body of the Gallows’ confines. Constructs that had once been Tevinter prison cells. A deafening roar hit his ears. Puzzled, he tipped his head back. Pale walls withered away to reveal the dark, chitinous form of a dragon._ No _, he realized as the dragon’s mouth opened. Scarlet fire pooled in the back of the beast’s maw._ Not a dragon. An archdemon.

Snapping upright, Cullen raked a hand through sweat-soaked tresses. It took him a minute to glimpse past his dream’s lingering fog to realize he was in the main tent. Several cots adjacent to his were empty, save Dorian’s. The mage was hunched at the cot’s foot, back toward Cullen. Deigning against conversation, Cullen hopped to his feet. He gave his face a quick splash at the nearby washbasin before changing his shirt and heading out into the night. Much of the Inquisition had since filtered off to their patrols or what few vacant cots remained for snatches of slumber. Josephine, Cassandra, and Leliana lingered nearby, circling a hunched figure Cullen at first took for one of the other mages until he spotted the shock of long ebony hair. Cursing their impatience, he strode toward the women. Huddling against his mantle and a thicker fur blanket, Petrina was seated on one of the foot trunks, her hands wrapped around a cup frothing with steam.

“I swear to you,” she reiterated in a hoarse lisp, “that’s what he said to me.”

“She should be resting,” Cullen interjected, “she nearly died out there.”

“No, you all need to hear this,” Petrina said with a gulp from her cup. Her lithe fingers rapped at the cup’s hard glaze. “The Elder One calls himself Corypheus, and he says he was one of the magisters that breached the gates to the Golden City like in the Chantry tales.”

Cullen blinked from her to Cassandra, then Josephine, and Leliana last. Leliana bore the most doubt of the group. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she insisted at length, “those stories are simply tales.”

Skirts jostling, Josephine chimed in, “ _Moreover_ , the only people who could possibly verify this one way or the other would be the Grey Wardens.”

“And they’ve all vanished, save Warden Blackwall,” Petrina recited, “who has been about as useful as anything else these days.” Her shoulders fell as she downed another sip from her cup. “He’s old and powerful,” she said, her gaze hardening as it dropped to the steaming depths of her drink, “like nothing I ever felt before, and he has a magical orb. It’s brass, I think, emblazoned with these curved lines that go on forever. I’ve never seen it’s like. It’s not from any Southern or Imperial Circle, that’s for sure.”

“An unknown, fantastic,” Cassandra groused, throwing up her hands.

“Cheer up, Cassandra,” Leliana chided, “Brynn dealt with the loss of her parents, her fellow Wardens, her commander, _and_ the Blight, yet she killed an archdemon and became queen of Ferelden.”

“Yes, what _fun_ it is to lose the only base we’d had, our sole chance of growth!” Cassandra barked back. Her expression softened abruptly, though her brows remained notched above her nose.

“We can’t just sit here,” Josephine added, “practically speaking, we need to get as far from Haven as possible before our stores run out.”

Cullen set his jaw. They had to feed civilians _and_ soldiers. He didn’t have to calculate the rations. That fell to Josephine, as she procured them in the first place. Necessity couldn’t change reality, and the reality was that there was nowhere to run. “Where do you expect us to go?” he asked her. “The only maps of this area lead to Ostagar, and we all know _that_ area is teeming with darkspawn.”

“Maker’s blood,” Petrina cursed as Josephine raised a finger, “will you all _stop_ it?”

“We need direction, Herald,” Cullen said, trying to keep his voice level. Petrina nearly died on that mountain, an act that saved their lives. It wasn’t right that she should shoulder this burden too.

“You’re right, just… stop with the yelling, please,” she urged, nails knocking at her cup. She drew a swig. “We’ll figure it out, just… stop yelling.”

Silence wafted over the group. A delicate cough broke the quiet. Solas stepped toward them, tentatively gripping a silverite staff he must have snagged in the chaos that engulfed Haven. “I might be able to help with that,” he said, his angled face foreign without its usual grimace.

“There are no maps of this area that reveal any close shelters, apart from Ostagar,” Cullen repeated.

“You didn’t look close enough, Commander,” Solas said. “Though I’d wager much of this will depend upon the Herald.”

Petrina winced at the moniker. She unleashed a torrent of words, none in Common, that Cullen took for curses from her emphasis on them. “I’m not the _fucking_ Herald of Andraste,” she spat. “Andraste didn’t send me from the Fade. Think about that for a moment, why would your cherished prophetess send a _mage_ when she fought against mages? When her Circle system shackled and bound us to Chantry oversight for centuries?”

“You underestimate the power and compassion of the Maker,” Cassandra backlashed.

“ _Your_ Maker has nothing to do with _me_ ,” Petrina seethed. “Else, your Maker would’ve saved Oliver, Lydia, cured my sister Elise of her lyrium addiction, and Harry of his fanaticism. Your Maker wouldn’t have blown up the Conclave!”

Cassandra surged forward. Cullen stepped in front of Petrina, catching the former Seeker’s full weight with a grunt. _I should’ve worn my armor._ Breathless, Cassandra fell back from him and thrust a shaking finger toward Petrina. “The Maker must indeed be compassionate, for your blasphemy hasn’t gotten you killed yet,” Cassandra ground out.

Petrina glared back, defiance smoldering against steel irises. “Not for lack of trying.”

“Come on,” Leliana urged, tugging at Cassandra’s arm. “You need sleep.”

Josephine jaunted after the duo, throwing an injured glance back at Petrina for good measure. Solas, watching this unfold, massaged his forehead. “Good show, Commander,” he offered to Cullen.

_At this rate, if the cold and starvation doesn’t kill us, our own petty squabbles will._ Petrina drew a long draught from her cup. “Sorry,” she bit out, the last vestiges of her anger cooling, “it’s not every day that proof of a story you’ve mocked for years materializes before you and threatens your life.”

“We’re all tired,” Cullen said.

Her lower lip shrank against the upper, forming a line. She didn’t answer him, finishing her drink before lowering the cup. “Alright, Solas, you said you had an idea, let’s hear it.”

Wariness shrouded Solas as his small eyes darted to Cullen. _Maker’s breath._ Whatever he thought of _Petrina’s_ paranoia, it was nothing compared to Solas’s. “Alright,” Cullen relented. He headed off toward the cluster Leliana and Josephine had formed near one of the larger fires.

“I still say we shouldn’t flaunt the fact that our illustrious Herald isn’t a believer,” Josephine said as Cullen neared.

“No,” Leliana said, “but denying the difference of opinion and the _reason_ for that difference of opinion is what got the Chantry into this mess to begin with, no?”

“You’re right, of course, but we will _not_ benefit from the Chantry’s decline…”

“Whatever you think of her, we need her,” Leliana interjected, razors rimming her words, “she brought us the mages, alongside the good graces of Arl Teagan and King Alistair.”

Stunned at the rogue’s fierce defense, Cullen gaped at her. Josephine readjusted her pinafore. “You’re right, of course you’re right. I just…” She sagged against the nearest barrel, using it as a seat. “I received a letter the other day. From Lord Rowan Trevelyan at the University of Orlais.”

“What does he want?” Leliana needled.

“Assurances that his sister is well, else he is going to _personally_ observe the Inquisition.”

Knowing Petrina, she’d written Rowan the instant she was drafted into the Inquisition. Cullen couldn’t blame her. _Yes, at least she writes home._ “She’s hardly responsible for the actions her brother takes,” he said.

“Unless that brother writes their mother, who then wages war against us,” Josephine retorted.

“I doubt that will happen.”

Leliana and Josephine traded dubious looks at those words. “You don’t think the bann wouldn’t risk open conflict with the Inquisition to ensure the safety of her daughter?” Leliana asked.

“Given what I’ve gathered of her relationship with the Herald, I expect not.”

“No matter how cold or ruthless a noble parent may seem at the outset, Commander, most of them will do _anything_ to ensure the safe return of their child. Particularly the mothers,” Leliana said.

“Never underestimate a highborn woman’s love for her child,” Josephine lectured. A stark shadow slashed across her features. “I learned _that_ one the hard way.”

Cullen deigned against opening _that_ issue. He suspected that saccharine Josephine wasn’t as sweet or innocent as she seemed, not if she’d survived her education in Orlais. For all its glamor, Orlais broke its youth into the Grand Game _hard_. Youth cut their teeth on subterfuge and bribery, to say nothing of assassination.

“Still, I expect the Commander is correct. Had the bann wished us any ill will, she would’ve sent us a message by now,” Leliana said.

“Let’s hope so,” Josephine agreed, slouching against her crossed legs. “The last thing we need is to lose standing in Ostwick.”

“Could we not send an envoy to the University of Orlais? Just to ensure Lord Rowan is content?”

“I somehow doubt he’s the type to take satisfaction from the words of a third party alone, and all of this is irrelevant if we can’t get out of this valley anyhow.”

“Don’t be so grim, Josie, it doesn’t suit you.”

_This_ was precisely the reason Cullen never dealt with the nobility. They were never satisfied. He almost pitied Josephine, had she not volunteered her services to the Inquisition. The crunch of snow and grit turned his attention toward Petrina as she loped into view, clutching at her blanket. “Solas has an idea,” she reported to him, although she also made sure to meet Leliana’s inquiring stare too. “There’s a fortress not far from here, and the cold should’ve preserved it enough for us to rebuild.”

“A fortress?” Josephine balked. “The property records of the area mention nothing of the sort…”

“It’s elvish, probably,” Petrina said, readjusting her blanket. “And it’s high in the peaks, from what I heard.”

“We can’t sit here and starve,” Cullen admitted. He didn’t like relying on the words of a mysterious apostate, but they hadn’t any choice. Staying here would mean starvation or dying to the Elder One’s red Templars. _Whatever’s left of them._

“If it’s high in the mountains, it won’t be easy to assault, and assuming the walls are intact…” Leliana trailed off, her stone-like harshness waning beneath a shard of optimism. “I’ll tell Cassandra when she wakes.”

“How does he know about this? And how far is it?” Cullen continued, each question branching into the next against a slew of scattered thoughts.

“He dreamed of it in the Fade.” Petrina shrugged, although her red lips curled into a dubious quirk. “It isn’t far, not more than a few weeks from here at the most. Maybe two or three.”

“The Elder One’s army was decimated at Haven, at least the force he brought with him,” Leliana mused, one step ahead of Cullen in that analysis. “We should be able to outpace any stragglers. I trust we haven’t seen any sign of the dragon since then.”

“None,” Cullen piped up. The few scouts he’d had keeping watch on that blighted beast reported that it flew away from Haven, the Elder One in its grasp. _Not the Elder One_ , he corrected himself, _Corypheus._

“I’ll set to work parsing out rations,” Josephine clipped, gliding off to find her paperwork in the mesh of belongings they’d cobbled together in the rampant departure.

Leliana chortled at her friend’s prompt flight. “Josie needs a vacation.”

Petrina curled her fingers tight against her blanket’s furs. Color simmered in her cheeks. “I apologize for my outburst…”

“Cassandra will understand. She endured far worse from Most Holy,” Leliana interrupted.

Chewing at her lower lip, Petrina emitted a curt nod. Weight pressed at Cullen’s pocket as he shifted his feet, trying to restore warmth to his freezing toes. One fish through his pocket yielded cold metal. Warmth struck his face as he produced a golden signet ring emblazoned with an owl in mid-flight, talons stretched outward. With a stammered apology, he handed it to Petrina. She blinked at him for a moment, until she noticed the metallic glint. Cautious hands, flushed with tea and cold, took the ring from him.

“I’m glad you didn’t toss it off the mountain,” she admitted, sliding it onto her finger with a shake of her head.

Indignant, Cullen combed his fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know, Commander,” Leliana teased, “you’re not exactly known for your patience with the highborn.” With a forced yawn, she sauntered past them on into the adjacent tent where Cassandra lay sleeping.

Once the former Left Hand was out of earshot, Petrina twirled her signet ring with a wan smile. “Thank you,” she added in a voice that almost didn’t rise above the crack of fire and rustle of murmured speech around them.

Face hot, Cullen grunted a simple, “You’re welcome.” The smile she gave him, basked in the firelight and the emerging moon’s pale illumination, stole any further response from him. To preserve what little dignity he had left, he steered himself toward the nearest cluster of soldiers to the tune of blood drumming in his ears.

_She’s the Herald of Andraste._

_Yes,_ his thoughts finalized as he neared his soldiers, _and she’s rather lovely when she’s not shouting at you, isn’t she?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of my week is going to suck, so have at ye. Yes, I am still studying for the bar. I know the mistakes I’m making, though. For this mock exam, I’m going to nip them in the bud. (I’ll write at the top of my packet/workbook “DON’T CHANGE YOUR ANSWER, EVEN IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHY IT’S RIGHT, JUST GO WITH IT.” xD)
> 
> Also, heh, Cullen, don't you hate feelings? That's why I don't bother with them, to be frank. I do like Cassandra. She's team-mom. I just never make her Divine anymore for obvious reasons. Oh, and Carver is actually interesting when rivaled. I like his character arc. I wish there was more to it, but that's everyone with DA II, I guess? Hawke herself is really purple. She gets purpler every time I play her, but I like some seriousness. (I am glad, btw, that the whole "you're a WoMaN" shtick from Origins wasn't carried over into DA II because JFC, I was so sick of it by the time that archdemon died. Like, you all had Sophia Dryden, you know women can join the Wardens... but whatever.) Thecla... away!


	13. The Long Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saved from certain death by chance and Cullen's strange compassion, Petrina begins picking up the pieces of her broken past and present. Forced to spend time with the others in her group, she starts to realize that there's more to life than regret and anger for what has been done. The Inquisition marches on at her guidance toward a new home, hopefully one the red Templars can't reach.

The fortress Solas mentioned was deep in the Frostbacks. He insisted on her guiding the others, while he scouted ahead. She sometimes joined him up at the turn in the pass or to survey a route from a higher point. While she never liked heights, they didn’t fill her with dread the way water did. Past Haven, the Frostbacks were still and silent but for the occasional rustle of a nug or squirrel through the pines and snows. When night fell, wolves howled skyward and owls crooned against the darkness. The quiet moments just after the sun set reminded Petrina of those first few days she spent on the road after leaving for the Conclave, drinking in the solace of a life without the Circle’s restraints and Templars’ watchful presence.

“There were moments like that in Kirkwall,” Varric agreed when she told him one night as he shuffled a deck of cards for a makeshift game over a worn black leather trunk. Wistfulness clouded his eyes. “You could look up and almost pick the stars from the skies, depending on which way the smoke from the factories was blowing.”

Sera, buried beneath a mound of blankets, nodded. Her blonde brows puckered over her nose. “Val Royeaux was like that, sometimes. Of course, we were never alone. The Friends of Red Jenny were always about, looking after each other.”

No one knew _what_ the Friends of Red Jenny were, and any questions had earned Petrina raised eyebrows and veiled remarks. She learned early on not to ask. Yet, part of her curiosity stemmed from envy. Unlike her rabble of rebel mages, the Friends of Red Jenny hadn’t sacrificed each other in blood magic rituals. “I know the feeling, Buttercup,” Varric said.

“Bah!” the Iron Bull boomed from the far end of the trunk. “If you all are going to mope, at least get me something to drink first.”

Snorting, Petrina took her cards. “I doubt anyone’s moping.”

“Anyone having as much _fun_ as the Bull will never mope,” Sera taunted as Varric some cards her way.

Petrina pealed with laughter. She’d heard the whispers. Even among Chantry sisters, the Bull was rather well-known for his prowess in bed. “You’ve had plenty of chances with that agent of Red’s, the elf with the blue eyes,” the Bull went on.

Sera’s nose curdled. “I don’t _do_ elves, least of all _elfy_ -elves.” She put added emphasis on that last part as Solas slipped past them. While she blew a raspberry at him, he didn’t acknowledge her presence.

“You’ll never get anywhere thinking that way,” Varric said, sliding in a pair of coppers to the center of their makeshift table.

“What is _that_?” the Bull demanded, grey-green eye glaring at the dwarf. “That is not a bet. That is child’s play.”

“Not all of us want to lose what little money we have, Bull,” Petrina concluded, plucking a pair of coppers from her pocket. “I’m in.”

“If the Bull is so brave, _he_ can raise the betting pool,” Sera teased as she planted her own coins on the pile.

Scowling at his companions, the Bull pried two coppers from his purse and reluctantly dropped them over the other coins. The game began in earnest then. Petrina didn’t remember the rules of Wicked Grace. She wasn’t too put out at losing two coppers, least of all when Varric insisted that he _knew_ Sera’s tells and ended up relinquishing the entire pile to her. No one wanted to ask the Bull how he’d _lost_. His sullen demeanor indicated that he’d thought his Ben-Hassrath training would win him the game. Petrina felt sorry for him, though she doubted he wanted her sympathy. “I’m still winning the bet the Vint has going,” the Bull went on with a smirk to Sera.

She rapped a hand against the trunk. “Dorian has a bet?”

“He and I are splitting the profits,” Varric confessed, “as to whether our Herald here will beat Corypheus.”

 _Wait a minute._ Petrina lifted an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t think I can beat an ancient magister-darkspawn?” she asked.

While a smirk pulled at Varric’s broad, dwarven face, it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re impressive, Firestarter, but you’ll need more than fire to beat an ancient magister darkspawn.”

“Yeah, luckily Lady-bits also has arrows,” Sera chirped.

The Bull thumbed at his chin. “Damned Vints, always pushing the limit on the magic. How do you think Corypheus became that ugly?”

“Several thousand years in the Black City is bad for anyone’s health, I imagine,” Petrina blurted.

Laughter rippled through her companions. “Fair enough, Boss, fair enough.”

Cackling, she stood with a wide stretch. Her entire body was sore from sitting for hours on a freezing barrel. More than that, hunger had started to gnaw at her stomach. She traipsed off from the trunk on light feet toward the lines forming near the stew cauldrons. Several mages lingered near the cauldrons. Her courage shriveled as she caught a pair of familiar irises in the sea of faces. Vivienne didn’t bear any outright disdain, though. That was a miniscule mercy. She sauntered through the crowd toward Petrina in a flutter of white velvet. Somehow, all that white remained untainted by the muck around them.

“Well, my dear, it is good to see you well,” Vivienne said.

Ignoring the surprise daggering her, Petrina replied with a stiff nod. “You as well.”

“I’m quite capable in dire situations.”

“I believe that.”

“Indeed.” Vivienne studied the younger mage a minute before adding, “Whatever you think I am, Lady Trevelyan, I’m not your enemy.”

Teeth clenching, Petrina lodged her hands against her underarms. “Oh?”

“Senior Enchanter Lydia was a good friend of mine. She spoke fondly of you.”

“That’s surprising.” Sighing, Petrina toyed with the end of her braid. As with Ollie, she’d fought with Lydia in those last few days.

Vivienne tilted her head. Something akin to compassion scored her chiseled features. “Whatever I might think of your work in the Circle, there is no doubt that you have a brain in that pretty head of yours,” she went on, “I’d say this is an ample opportunity for you to use it.”

 _“You’re smart, Petra. Think about what this will mean if you let those_ savages _control your cause, your movement,”_ Lydia chimed in Petrina’s ears. Striding past Vivienne, Petrina snatched one of the wooden bowls and served herself some stew. Steam blistered up from the broth, concealing the vegetables and chunks of venison buried in the bowl. Rowan hated stew. That was all the cafeterias at the University of Orlais served in the evenings and during holiday breaks. The Circle at Ostwick had been rather well-stocked when it came to meals, likely a courtesy of several highborn families in the area with mages in their ranks. Couldn’t keep the Templars from hurting mages, but all that wealth sure could supply decent food and drink.

Across the way, Petrina glimpsed a lone flash of cream-colored satin. She loped toward the isolated mage, perched on a log before one of the few vacant fires in the camp. Dorian said not a word as she approached, face downcast, one hand twirling his spoon against a cold bowl of stew. “Are you well?” she asked.

“Oh, _I’m_ wonderful,” he grunted, shifting to face her. Concern lashed his features beneath the firelight’s flickering illumination. “In Tevinter, you probably heard the stories.”

Downing a steaming bite of stew, she murmured her agreement. Stories from the Southern Chantry were just that in Tevinter, nightmares meant to frighten Southern mages into compliance, to discourage mundanes from empathizing with their magic-wielding loved ones. Granted, she didn’t put much stock into what the Chantry spouted, all based on the words of a woman who had died long ago.

“I knew what I was taught couldn’t be the _whole_ truth,” Dorian went on, setting his bowl down at his side. “But I assumed there was a _kernel_ of it in there, somewhere.”

The heat of the stew mixed with her lingering vestiges of uncertainty around her faith. As a child, she’d been enamored with the Chantry. They all had been, every Trevelyan child immersed in it from birth. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, except when it came to the Chantry’s distrust of mages and its rampant need to control every aspect of its followers’ lives. She’d thought it all warm and welcoming at first, seeking comfort in Andraste’s pensive stone stare whenever her siblings teased her. That was before the Circle lodged a firm wall between her and the rest of her family. “You were deceived,” she surmised with another nibble from her bowl.

Dorian flapped a hand toward the star-spattered sky. “It’s hardly the first time. My former mentor is one of your prisoners, after all.”

“Emphasis on _former_ ,” she reminded him. Magister Alexius was the Inquisition’s sole prisoner, for now.

“I worked with him on that magic he used in Redcliffe. Fed me some rot about using it to help Tevinter and our cousins in the South.” Dorian unleashed a string of foreign Tevene curses as he stood, head swaying. “Like a _fool_ , I believed him.”

“We’re all fools when it comes to people we care about.”

“Not you, though.” Dorian slid a calculated, scrutinizing glare over her. “You keep everything in check.”

“It’s a recent addition.” _Yes, don’t let anyone in lest they too join the pile of bodies festering in your past._ Swatting that thought back, she tightened her grip on her bowl. “And it’s not been entirely helpful, either.”

“Even so, I wish I had your discipline. Shocking as it might seem to you, even someone as flawless as me has regrets.”

Nails scraping at the bowl’s wood grain, she downed more stew. “Who said I don’t?” No one escaped the Circle’s fall unscathed. Those that lived were scarred from their pasts in the Circle and their battles to escape it.

“None that you’ve shared with any of us, my dear.”

Midway through a bite of venison, she ducked her head. Blonde flashed in her periphery, dragging her attention toward the soldiers clustering near the edge of camp. _He_ knew, as did Leliana. Varric could guess, Petrina supposed. Solas had seen her snap once or twice. No one else, in truth, cared. They had their own worries. The war spared no one, not even mundanes.

“I thought about what you said to me in Redcliffe, that dreadful future we experienced,” Dorian went on, tugging at his cloak. “About slavery.”

Remembering her harsh words caused heat to sear her cheeks. “I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind…”

“That doesn’t make you any less correct,” he persisted, daggers brimming in his eyes as they found hers. “We own people without a second thought, humans or elves, let them sell themselves into bondage, and we do _nothing_ about it, all while insisting everything is normal!”

“It probably _is_ normal for Tevinter,” Petrina said, swallowing the last of her stew. She placed her empty bowl next to his full one. “But that doesn’t make slavery correct or just or good.”

“No,” he concurred, mustache dipping as he frowned. “Although that does make me wonder: how do any of us know what is right?”

“We don’t,” she said, “until we debate the matter thoroughly and decide which truth to adopt.”

“Or, in Tevinter’s case, bribe our way to a position of authority.”

“All it takes is one person to start a conversation,” Petrina said. The words felt hollow coming from her, much as she knew they were true. When it came to the rebellion, there had been _several_ people starting multiple conversations. At first, people disavowed the Kirkwall Chantry explosion. Then tunes changed once the Ostwick Chantry insisted on retaining tradition.

“I suppose so.” Dorian shifted back toward the fire, rubbing his hands together as he stretched them toward the flames. “Maker’s blood, it’s cold out here.”

“You _poor_ thing,” she intoned.

“Don’t mock me.”

“Solas says it isn’t far now. You’ll last.”

“I’ll _die_. People of my breeding aren’t built for this cold. I know this because you’re from the same stock, dear, and you look _awful_ in this weather.”

She gave his upper arm a hard pinch, twisting for good measure. He yelped, massaging the sore spot. “I think I look rather good,” she huffed into the turn of her heel, “considering I almost died.”

Beyond Dorian’s isolated fire, the camp was alive with chatter and the rich scent of cooked food. Petrina found Blackwall next, perched alone, whittling away at a hunk of wood. She didn’t approach the Warden, following his occasional upward glances toward Josephine’s silhouette. Josephine had her back to Blackwall, but occasionally, she erupted in a series of girlish laughs that traveled toward him. She was locked in a hushed conversation with Leliana. Pity welled in Petrina for Blackwall. Josephine was highborn, even if her family no longer dominated the seas as they once had. As the heir to House Montilyet, she’d have to marry, and marry _well_. _One burden I’m glad not to have_ , Petrina reflected. Blackwall, while he’d never been forthright with his origins, was common. Moreover, a life in the Wardens meant bearing no children, and dying too soon.

“Herald, I almost didn’t see you there,” Blackwall said, pausing his whittling to acknowledge her with a nod.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Not fond of the moniker, are you?” he asked, eyes winking in a way that reminded her of her father. What little she remembered of him.

“No,” she said, “it’s not true anyway.”

“I reckon that doesn’t matter, if you ask me.” Blackwall jutted his bearded chin toward the camp. “All these people think you’re heaven sent. That’s why they fight.”

Discomfort gripped her. She’d considered the notion before, in passing, like when she first woke in Haven to all those Templars lining the path toward the Chantry with fists over their hearts. _More people to fail. To lose._

“You’re a Warden,” she said, grabbing the nearest subject she could, “what do you know about killing archdemons?”

Blackwall’s bushy brows rose against his forehead. “Well,” he said, thumbing shavings from the wood block in his hand, “I know it’s a close-kept secret, even between trusted comrades or friends.”

“Only a Warden can kill them, though.”

“That’s how I understand it, yes.”

There was nothing saying that dragon was an archdemon. It had no tide of darkspawn in its wake, after all. Yet, it _looked_ like one, and it breathed colored fire. Dusting the last of the shavings from his work in progress, Blackwall stowed the block in his pocket and sheathed his whittling knife. He left her without another word, letting the retreating crunch of his boots against snow and grit fill the quiet. _Strange man._

In the ensuing silence, Petrina drifted back to Haven, to the scald of red in her lungs, the din of blades clashing and bowstrings whizzing. None of those attackers wore her brother’s face, but that monstrosity she’d fought had no humanity left. _I can’t believe I’m worrying about_ Harry _, of all people._ Whatever their differences, he was still her family. He’d been her brother before he ever became a Templar or a member of the _faithful._

Though she tried to keep Harry from her dreams, he was there when she slept, caked in red lyrium or towering over her with that flaming sword on his chest. He and the clones her dreams made of him chanted accusations at her throughout that night. When she woke, the din of those accusations rang out in her ears, forming a dark chorus: _“Your war, your war, your war!”_

Eager to replace the garish visions with something pleasant, she remembered the portrait that hung over the parlor fireplace. Their mother had framed it in gold gilt. It was the last portraits of the siblings all together. There was Cat, chestnut ringlets perched neatly against her shoulders, poised at the harpsichord bench with a delicate and coy smile toward the artist. At her side was Gregory, stoic, a hand resting against the hilt of a blade on his belt. Elise was seated on the divan to the left, her hair drawn back in a prim updo that would later become her signature style. Rowan and Petrina were close by, smirking at the viewer. Harry was furthest from the group, poised near the long window in the back, silhouetted in shadow and dull morning light cast by summer shade, rose quartz prayer beads fisted in his hand. They’d all worn white that day, an attempt at creating a striking contrast for those bearing their mother’s looks, the signature Trevelyan black hair and silver eyes. The effect was, as ever, to make Cat striking and regal. Though Gregory was the eldest, it had always been Cat who had the natural propensity to lead, the effortless grace of coaxing others into following her.

 _More than that, where did Harry get those stupid beads again?_ Petrina pondered that question as she pulled on a fresh change of attire that morning. A gift, from one of the aunts, not that she recalled which one. _Not Great Aunt Lucille._ She was hardly the holy icon House Trevelyan strove to foster.

 _It doesn’t matter._ _You can’t save him anymore than you could save Ollie or Lydia._ Thumb flicking at her signet ring, Petrina pushed past that dour notion. He was alive, of that much, she was certain.

Past the sturdy canvas of the women’s tent, all was awash in sunlight, making the snow impossible to look at. Cassandra, perched near a trunk adorned with a map of Southern Thedas alongside Leliana and Cullen, waved a hand as she caught Petrina’s attention. Quelling her instinct to flee, she trudged toward the three. The map was held down to the trunk courtesy of several cut pieces of quartz. Each bit of the weathered parchment had been marked up in various crisscrossing lines of ink. Petrina squinted at the network of markings. It wasn’t their map from the supposed war room at Haven, and that was a good thing, as no sane person could’ve translated the mesh of lines and color.

No one but Cullen, that is. He thrust a finger toward one of the red lines. “I have scouts monitoring this pass,” he explained, “and they assure me that nothing but beasts live in the wilderness.”

“None of my agents have seen a trace of these red Templars since the attack,” Leliana said.

“And Ser Dowell?” Cassandra slipped.

 _Templar._ Petrina coughed, fingers rubbing at one of the ties on her jerkin. “Ser Dowell?” she echoed.

Cullen massaged the bridge of his nose. “The Templar I disciplined for improper use of force against a mage in Haven.”

Revelation dawned at a trudge before snapping into place. Petrina remembered the one, an ashen-haired woman who hit a Kirkwall mage. “I take it she escaped.”

“She sold us out to the red Templars and Corypheus,” Leliana corrected, venom edging her syllables.

“What?” Cassandra balked. “I knew her, surely she wouldn’t have…”

“If she’s done that, then she’s a traitor,” Petrina cut in, “but she’s also a potential asset. Provided there’s a chance, she should be brought to us alive.” A risk, and from the looks the trio before her traded, they disagreed. “We need any information we can get on this enemy,” she emphasized. She doubted they’d find Ser Dowell alive, much less with all her human faculties intact.

Promising to relay that request, Cassandra and Leliana stalked off through the camp. Given the scent of roasted meat and ale in the air, breakfast was still underway. Once the former Right and Left Hands retreated, Petrina resumed studying Cullen’s map. Her nose scrunched as the colors and lines spun before her. “Commander, you need a mapmaker,” she declared. “This is utterly useless.”

“ _I_ can read it, Herald,” he objected.

“Yes, but this would be more useful if the rest of us could understand it too.” Guilt flared in her at the twitch his brows gave. She was picking at him again. Her mood soured once she caught wind of Ser Dowell, and that coupled with nagging worries for Harry made a potent combination. _He saved your life, you know_ , Petrina thought in Elise’s somber, neutral tone.

“Assuming we make it out of the wilds safely, I’ll be sure to purchase another map and create a coding system,” Cullen vowed.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Petrina swore, “I don’t care about the map.”

“Something is on your mind,” he said, his earlier sardonic demeanor fading.

 _He saved your life._ In the Circle, trusting Templars was comparable to dealing with demons. Only brainwashed fools loyal to the Chantry and its sycophants did that. Petrina learned early on to fear Templars, and when the rebellion hit, she discovered that even trusting former Templars could lead to a mob chasing her heels. It was safer to go it alone. Safer not to trust Templars. _He’s not a Templar anymore._

 _He saved your life._ Indeed, he’d been nothing but to kind to her, despite the saccharine reek of blue lyrium that clung to his essence. Above that cloying sweetness that hovered about him, it was his kindness that undid her every time. _“I don’t think I could,”_ he’d said when she asked him if he’d murder her outright if she ever got possessed. He wanted to understand the reams of resentment and distrust she bore the Templar Order. _Trusting Templars is the path to an early grave._

_Cullen isn’t a Templar._

And therein lay the problem. He wasn’t a Templar any longer. Nor was she a Circle mage any longer. Her stomach turned as she lifted her head toward those soft, amber eyes. “I wanted to thank you,” she said, nauseated at how her voice shook against her ears, “for saving my life.”

Surprise radiated across his expression, and then that scarred corner of his mouth lifted. Her heart jumped at that subtle shift. When he looked at her like that, gentle and sincere, she believed his pretty reassurances and apologies. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said, pink blossoming against his fair complexion.

“Yes, I do,” she urged, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “I’ve hardly been fair to you, after all.”

“I’m not the sort to hold grudges, Herald, least of all for those that are understandable.”

Bright washed down an adjacent slope, bathing him in ethereal, early light. Her gut clenched at the warmth the sun highlighted in his features. _Maker’s breath._ Cheeks burning, she spun on her heel with a murmured excuse as she headed off in search of breakfast. Rowan would’ve laughed and teased her if he’d been there, she knew. It was the exhaustion of this damned Inquisition, the fact that they’d shunted her into this position of influence and authority without her consent. _He was the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall_ , her thoughts chanted. The mantra did nothing to stop that smile from interrupting her thoughts as she ate, though. She’d seen it before, in Haven, when he’d laughed at her cynical sarcasm.

 _You found it nice then too, didn’t you?_ It didn’t matter. Nothing would matter if they didn’t get to this fortress Solas mentioned. Using that as a motivator, she rushed through her food and found Solas afterwards. He gestured toward the path of unbroken snow ahead, wending up through towers of rock and frost. “I trust this place of yours isn’t infested with bandits or worse,” Petrina remarked as people mulled about the camp, packing up and dousing fires or sweeping out tracks.

“I would’ve seen them in the Fade,” Solas assured her.

“I suppose so,” she said. Her gaze slipped toward his feet then. Pale toes poked at freezing snows. How he hadn’t gotten frostbite yet was a mystery. Even her fire spells carried her just so far when it came to warmth in Orlais’ harsh frosts. “That doesn’t bother you?” she asked.

“Should it?” Solas asked, mirth gleaming in his small eyes.

“ _Yes_ ,” she emphasized, “most people’s toes would be frostbitten by now if they walked around barefoot.”

“Enchantments are a wondrous thing, Herald.”

“Don’t sass me, Solas.”

He chuckled, readjusting the hem of his ragged robe. “I wouldn’t dare.”

With the camp packed and the brontos loaded, the Inquisition moved out further into the Frostbacks. The days ahead were shorter than before, or perhaps that was just the ache in Petrina’s calves and feet from treading snows that rose up past her knees in some cases. She stopped counting the days. Nights were a time for her to recoup what little rest she could, though Varric always played cards and told the Inquisition’s inner circle about Hawke as the sun streaked the sky with fire. Dahlia Hawke was an enigma, but she was also human. One night, looking right at Petrina, Varric finished off a story with a somber chug of his remaining ale, “The one thing that kept Hawke sane in the end was her connection with Isabela, Carver, Gamlen, the rest of us. Even the best of us sometimes need to rely on others.”

Solas chimed in with an old Elvhen proverb about villages raising children. Petrina rubbed at the owl on her signet ring and searched the stars for a pattern that resembled the ones over her family home. That portrait of her with her siblings danced at the fringe of her consciousness, and it haunted her dreams with illusions of happiness that she nonetheless sought still. Looking back, the flaws were obvious. Gregory was shy, bookish, sensitive, and had none of Cat’s brash determination. Elise’s cheerfulness masked her resentment toward the elder two and Harry for his simplistic satisfaction with his assigned role. Rowan acted out in garish ways because he’d been held close for years as the _normal_ twin, spoiled until revelation hit that he was old enough to be sold to the Templars. Flawed as it was, Petrina couldn’t help but wonder if the simplicity had been better in a way than _this_. Back then, there hadn’t been anyone relying on her, looking at her as if she’d fallen straight from the Maker’s bosom.

 _If not for the Circle and Mother, it could’ve been a grand time._ It wasn’t real, this idealism her dreams cast on her childhood, but the long walks through the Frostbacks’ forests gave her plenty of time to dwell on it and recast events. She wished things _had_ happened as they did in her dreams, all pastel sunsets and delightful chases through towering hedges. Sometimes, in her journeys to her past in Ostwick, the cracks would shatter the illusions and she’d recall days spent in a drunken stupor after the Circle fell, screaming at hands she’d scrubbed raw in the false certainty that they were caked in gore. Before that were the tiring days of her pre-teens, when Elise and Cat would wander off to speak in hushed words about something Petrina would “understand later.” Harry and Gregory played a similar role with respect to Rowan, though the latter preferred books and writing to people and the former was too enamored with the Chantry to care. For the longest time, Rowan had been Petrina’s only friend in that household veiled in discretion and prestige.

_It wasn’t perfect, but at least there weren’t red Templars and an ancient magister darkspawn about._

Solas told Petrina that Corypheus’s attack on Haven had “changed” her. She’d laughed it off, half her body recovering its feeling from her treacherous journey through the blizzard. Now, she understood what he meant. It was like the Circle’s fall, yet this was also nothing like it. Corypheus attacked Haven because of _her_ , or at least the key on her hand. _The anchor._ He wanted it to get into the Fade. _Whether he can become a god doesn’t matter. He’ll have the powers of one if he gets there._ She comprehended that much from the echoes of Redcliffe that shadowed her darkest thoughts.

Against the constant, tiring drudge of camping, packing up, walking for hours on end, Petrina noticed certain things about her companions that she’d never paid attention to in Haven. Solas liked his tea _black_ , during those rare instances that he drank it. Varric had a small, leather bound journal he scrawled things in when he thought no one was looking. Josephine’s laugh had a snort when she was nervous, and that most often occurred around Blackwall. Likewise, Blackwall showered her in compliments and called her _Lady_ Josephine. Cassandra read novels that she kept tucking under her seat or beneath her arm whenever someone approached. Vivienne prayed every morning and evening to Andraste and the Maker for guidance and goodwill. The Iron Bull sometimes threw Sera up on his shoulder alongside his lieutenant Krem, often while pealing with thunderous laughter at how light and small they both were. Cole was frequently seen sprinting through the crowds when Petrina bothered to remember him, sometimes handing out handkerchiefs to those sobbing near the healers’ tents, other times carrying a pot of honey towards the place where Leliana took her meals. _That_ made Petrina chuckle, for she doubted anyone else knew that’s where the boy with the large hat had gone, least of all Leliana.

Not that Leliana _needed_ honey in her wine these days. She seemed better than she’d been in the immediate aftermath of the Conclave, ready to toss a knife at the nearest person for the slightest infraction. Besides, Petrina had no room for criticism on that front, not without subjecting herself to hypocrisy. She had a feeling that she and Dorian were both caught in that same predicament, not that they’d ever admit such things aloud. He started cracking jokes around her, sometimes telling her stories of Minrathous and insisting that she _had_ to go when this was all over, assuming they lived. She just laughed at that, knowing full well that he didn’t mean it.

Last of the bunch, and most perplexing, Petrina came to realize, was Cullen. He kept to himself, save the occasional argument or conversation with Leliana. Sometimes it was both with those two. They disagreed on many things: Vashoth, dwarves, and elves in the Chantry, magic, Templar oversight, allocation of Inquisition resources. Yet, there was also respect between them. For all their disagreements, the source of disagreement never impacted their friendship. _A shame you couldn’t have done the same with Lydia and Ollie_ before _they died, hmm?_

The days began to blur together, and that blurring started to push back the regret beckoning everywhere Petrina turned. She became too tired to bother dwelling on the blood soaking her past. It was easier once Varric began insisting on sharing an ale every other night over a game of Wicked Grace. Sera won only when Varric didn’t cheat. The Iron Bull always bet more than he could win back.

He was another one Petrina couldn’t fathom enduring this cold, yet he walked around without a shirt in the freezing winds of the Frostbacks without a qualm. The way others handled the biting chill at the Orlesian-Fereldan border was an endless source of fascination, a viable distraction from her own discomfort. This high in elevation, the cold cut clean past most layers of blankets, clothing, and armor.

Of course, _asking_ about the obvious earned Petrina no answers. The Iron Bull just bellowed with laughter when she asked him one evening as she sat shivering in her cloak, a warmth spell supplying meager warmth against the petulant chill. “The secret, Boss, is that I’m much bigger than you and have a larger metabolism.” For added effect, he winked and quipped, “If you ever want a taste of that, let me know. You seem like you have frustrations that could be worked out in _private_.”

She ignored that _offer_. Varric found that remark a source of _constant_ amusement, and never failed to wave it over her head whenever he fell in step with her during the daylight marches. She took to avoiding the dwarf, eager to staunch teasing that she didn’t find humor in. It _had_ been a while since she’d trusted someone with real, intimate contact, and that went beyond the physical satisfaction of a quick orgasm. Orlesian men never wanted more, making it easy to have an abrupt, heated tryst in the dim glow of an isolated drawing room or corridor. The Iron Bull was after what every man wanted: an abrupt lay in satin sheets, the smug satisfaction of making her cry out his name as he left her sweat-soaked and uncertain to head back to his life. Granted, _she_ was the Trevelyan daughter to try that sort of thing out with, as she was at least barren. No risk of potion failures there. _You don’t want that, though, do you? You’re still chasing whatever you had with Ollie._

“Well, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” Dorian joked a few nights later over ale.

Petrina rolled her eyes. “I hear he likes it _rough_.”

“Maker’s breath, Petra, I need a distraction of some sort from the world falling apart around us.” He stared at her then, deadpan and earnest. “Does it _never_ bother you? You can’t spend all of your time moping about Corypheus.”

“I don’t _mope_.”

“You _do_.”

She scoffed into a sip of ale. “And which one of us is always alone again? I _forget_.”

Dorian chuckled. “Few people want to socialize with the _mage from Tevinter_.”

“You could get to know them.”

“I’m sure my reputation has been well tainted now anyway, thanks to our _illustrious_ Warden.”

Petrina shook her head as she planted her tankard on the barrel serving as their table. “ _Josephine_ thinks our Warden is quite the gentleman.”

“She can have him,” Dorian said, “not sure what she sees in a man that self-righteous.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“You’re lucky he _likes_ you.”

“You could try getting to know him.”

“ _I_ am not the problem,” Dorian clipped, glaring into his tankard. “ _He_ is the one that is constantly insulting me when I’ve nothing but forthright, but he will never yield an inch on his _mysterious_ past.”

“Few Wardens come into that line of work willingly. Maybe try asking him about his hobbies?” Petrina suggested.

“I doubt I want to know much about _those_ , given that he _slept_ in the _stables_ at Haven.”

Exasperated, Petrina raised her hands in surrender. “I am too tired to fight this.”

“I’m right anyhow.”

Tucking her eye-roll into her pivot, she tramped off to her tent. She made it halfway before that awful moniker chimed in her ears, this time from Cullen. “Herald!”

“I trust no one has incinerated anyone,” she deadpanned as he approached.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said, “I was just curious as to whether you’d seen Josephine. I need to ask her about some land titles or whatnot.”

“I haven’t, though she’s probably not far from Warden Blackwall. Ah, I should add before you go pestering her that land titles won’t be much of an issue out here. We’re _well_ beyond any titled land. Solas says no one has traversed this area for ages.”

Cullen deflated a tad at her bluntness. _Nicely done._ “I see.”

“I doubt they’d bother evicting us anyhow,” Petrina added, struggling to smooth her perpetual harshness, “they can hardly write off the Inquisition as a bunch of heretics when news of Corypheus’s assault on Haven has spread by now.”

Doubt wrote itself into his face. “You seem awfully certain of that.”

“I learned long ago never to be certain of anything,” she admitted.

He slapped the heel of his hand to his forehead with an abrupt wince, moving it in tight circles. “I see,” he ground out, “my apologies, but I’ll have to continue this later.”

 _That answers that_ , Petrina thought as she watched his fur mantle fade into the sea of faces, _he’s not taking it anymore._ Elise’s silver eyes, wild and bloodshot, danced at the fore of Petrina’s mind, hands clawing at mussed jet hair. _No wonder Cat wanted nothing to do with either of us_ , she reflected, _one of us was addicted to lyrium and the other a sobbing alcoholic._ Offhand, Petrina wondered who else among the Inquisition knew about Cullen not taking lyrium, let alone the advisors. _It can kill Templars, drive them mad, you know._ She tucked that fact aside. Cullen made his choice. He didn’t trust her enough to tell her. She’d let him make that decision on his own. Until then, for the Inquisition’s sake, she could only hope he retained his sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transition chapter! xD So, here's a head's up: these are the last two weeks before the bar exam. I'm busy trying my damndest to memorize everything and ditch my doubts. Doubt is killing my scores on practice tests. So, I'm going to be busy drowning myself in practice questions. I'll try uploading as best I can, but it might not get done until August, probably that first weekend after the 31st. If I upload sooner, no big deal, but if not, that's the reason.
> 
> Also, heh, the "don't sass me, Solas" line was a response I imagined from one of the Haven conversations, the one about whatever caused the Conclave explosion. You can ask him if he thought the orb survived the blast, and he'll go, "YOU survived, did you not?" I really wanted to respond with, "Don't sass me, Solas." But, I guess that's why I write fic... to dream up snark.


	14. Touching the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the chaos of Haven behind them, the Inquisition is winding through the wilds toward a new home that Solas insists will allow them to rebuild. Things are complicated further when Varric recalls that he knows someone who has tangled with Corypheus before, one of the most infamous apostates in Thedas. Rowan Trevelyan makes good on his threat to the Inquisition, and Dorian learns feelings aren't always a bad thing.

Trudging up the path, Petrina mopped sweat from her forehead as she joined Solas atop the snowy slope. He thrust a finger out toward the hawk circling above them. Past the bird’s dark plumage and beyond the unending white of the Frostbacks, Petrina glimpsed the source of Solas’s awe against the clear alpine skies: a massive fortress, weathered pennants flapping from its towers still. The walls were tall and intact, the towers enormous, and from where she stood, she surmised the grounds were open, vast. It was a far cry from Haven. Indeed, it reminded her of her family’s older properties that once served as winter retreats.

“Skyhold,” Solas said, a rare smirk tugging at his lips.

“Not more than a day’s walk,” Petrina said, relief unfurling in her. They could rebuild there, maybe get a few shots at the dragon. Even if it was an archdemon, the Blight had been defeated in Denerim, at the highest point in the city. Skyhold wasn’t Denerim, but it also wasn’t a pinprick of a town perched in a valley. They’d flourish here. _And defeat Corypheus._

“Does that surprise you?”

“ _Everything_ surprises me these days,” she replied, scuffing at snow between her feet.

Light jaunted across Solas’s hairless head, and he reached back to pull his hood up. “I’ve come to see that as one of the few enjoyments I’ve had interacting with the waking world. New things bring new experiences in the Fade.”

“I’ve never much liked the Fade,” she confessed. Reluctance hitched in her at the way his ginger brows dove. “My Harrowing wasn’t exactly a fun romp.”

“Baiting a demon to tempt a young mage hardly creates the ideal and natural condition of the Fade.”

“The dangers that lie there are still too real to ignore.”

“Indeed, they are, and I would never deny you that truth. However, it is important to remember that spirits like Cole come from the Fade. The Fade fosters compassion and justice as much as it does envy and vengeance.”

“And yet blood mages so often invoke demons from the Fade in their works,” Petrina chimed, arms folding against an impending gale. She trembled as the wind lashed at her small form, ripping her braid over her shoulder and tearing Solas’s hood back.

Solas tilted his head. “Blood magic is but a tool.”

“A tool with far direr consequences than other sorts of magic.”

“Your fire is no less destructive.”

_He isn’t serious, is he?_ She gritted her teeth. Quelling the onslaught of gruesome remembrances, she released a sharp exhale. “I’m not arguing with you on this.”

“You have a very narrow-focus. I simply want to try broadening it.”

_So did Linnea._ No one knew what became of _that one_ , although Petrina guessed that Linnea ran off to Tevinter or was killed in the events at Redcliffe Castle. The loss of life was tragic, but Petrina doubted anyone would miss sullen Linnea with her unbending volatility and penchant for blood magic. Apostates didn’t grasp the dangers of blood magic, not unless they were given access to Circle knowledge. That had been one good thing about the Circle, letting mages trade knowledge with younger counterparts. Some sort of structure like that could become feasible, in the future. An academy like those in Tevinter, but without the blood magic, slavery, and financial corruption would be a good idea.

_And one without the confinement and restrictions of the Circles would be grand._ Petrina had yet to ask Fiona about her plans. It seemed too soon. It _was_ too soon. They had a war to win. _Another_ war.

Threading her way back toward the remaining Inquisition, Petrina pulled Leliana and Cullen aside to assure them that Skyhold was but a day away on foot. Leliana sent her scouts ahead, even with Solas’s reassurances that the path was clear. She didn’t want anything left to chance, not after what happened with Ser Dowell. News had yet to reach the mages that one of the Inquisition’s Templars had betrayed them all to Corypheus, and if Petrina had her way, that was one secret _no one_ would relinquish. Certain agents had access to the information, as did some of the high-ranking soldiers. She refused to let anyone else know, insisting alongside Leliana that no mage needed _another_ reason to dislike and distrust Templars. Necessary though they were, it was plain from this incident that structurally the Order would have to change if it was to remain.

Onward the Inquisition went, higher into the Frostbacks. Petrina found her breaths readjusting to the thin air. She made sure to watch the others, knowing many of them were unfamiliar with the elevation. Sometimes, she caught the highborn guests among the group gossiping in their crisp Orlesian accents. She found it amusing at first, but then as they broke for lunch and to let the children rest, she overheard rumors that made her almost cough up her wine. “Isn’t it thrilling?” a man in a mustachioed mask asked his lady companion.

“Oh yes,” the lady cooed from behind her fan, a plain white thing for the walk, “it has all the markings of a classic novel: difference in titles, a clash of roles, and one of the parties so _surly_ and committed to independence.”

Coughing on her way past, Petrina added her most curious, doe-like stare at the duo before ducking her lashes. An old trick she’d used back home in Ostwick to shut up the gossipers. The Orlesians, accustomed to such things, went quiet. It hardly mattered, given that her reputation was mottled enough with her affairs back home. _“You have a thing for Orlesians, don’t you, Petra?”_

_“It’s the accent,”_ she always quipped back to Rowan, often while clinking her wine glass against his.

 “Silver eyes identical to my own glint with mischief, but it’s blue that I catch across the room. Darker than his, gentler. Delicate, poet’s hands lead me past tall green walls…”

Cheeks hot, Petrina rounded on her heel toward Cole, shushing him with a finger to her lips. “I thought you said I was too bright,” she seethed.

“Sometimes it fades, like during an eclipse when the moon moves an inch past the sun.” Cole tugged at the ragged hem of his shirt before chancing a look up past his hat. “You seem happier. Changed and changing, learned and learning. Solutions poke through in odd places, daisies against snow with the first etchings of spring.”

“We’re a long way from spring,” Petrina assured him, fingers splaying against the fur collar of her new cloak. Someone had pilfered the collar for her, tacking it onto a thicker, winter piece. One of Josephine’s seamstresses. It wasn’t the peacock blue of House Trevelyan, though. _Never thought I’d miss that._ Most of the family estates were swathed in that color, always with the teal sheen, accented with silver and black. _“Modest in temper, bold in deed.”_

Petrina blinked as the space around her quieted. _Cole?_ “Talking to the kid, huh?” Varric asked, striding to her side, flask in hand.

“I… think I was,” she said.

“Chuckles says Cole is a spirit, but I’m not entirely sure. He sometimes acts like a person. But you know more about this than I do, Firestarter.”

She barked out a laugh. “Not by much. I studied dragons and fire, little else.”

“You know what I mean, magic-spirit-demon stuff. You had a Harrowing, right?” Varric asked.

“Yes,” she said, stiffening, “but it wasn’t exactly a field trip. Only the uninitiated or spirit healers traverse the Fade of their free will.”

“I don’t understand how any of you people dream in there. I went there with Hawke,” Varric answered, shaking his head, “there’s so much _happening_. How do you sleep?”

_Dwarves don’t dream. They have no mages, either. No connection to the Fade._ Petrina rapped a finger to her temple as she searched for a description. “Without experiencing it, I can’t really tell you. We’re not _conscious_ when we dream, but our souls go to the Fade when our consciousness sleeps. That is when we are most vulnerable to possession, I suppose.”

“You’re not aware of what’s happening to you in the Fade?”

“Mages can awaken in the Fade, and I suppose some strong-willed souls might be able to awaken in the Fade too, but otherwise, no.”

Varric’s pupils widened against his irises, then he raised his hands as his head fell. “Tall people are strange.”

“I take offense at that,” she replied, smirking, “ _I_ still dream.”

Varric chuckled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. She pursed her lips but deigned against meddling. He left her and she headed on through the camp, trying to assess everyone’s readiness to head out. Sera rallied everyone with a whistle against her pinky fingers. Everyone flinched at the sound, but it worked to get even the sluggish brontos moving.

They walked on through the impending nightfall, and as the skies blackened above them, the Inquisition breached the gates of Skyhold. Magic was the first thing Petrina felt when her feet touched the ground. Power was everywhere, soft and subtle, yet strong and supporting, embedded into the ground where the place lay, or so it seemed. It was dizzying, clawing at her lungs, her veins, and yet it was comforting. Peering up around her, at the tall ramparts, the deserted buildings that studded the grounds, even the dilapidated doorways and rooftops, she knew it wasn’t a prison the way the Circle’s castle had been. This wasn’t a pitiful echo of a base as Haven had been. This was a fortress, a place to defend, and a place from which to launch attacks. _A place to grow, flourish._

“Tarasyl’an Te’las.”

Solas’s voice cut through her reverie. She spun toward him. He was peering up at the main keep in hushed awe. “‘The place where the sky is kept.’ That is what the ancient elves called it.”

“Explains the magic,” Petrina mused, “although even the ruins couldn’t match the power imbued here.”

“Don’t say that too loudly. There are still Templars among us,” Solas pointed out with a dry grin.

Hunger gnawing on her stomach, Petrina tracked the scents of cooking food. One of the bards had struck up a song elsewhere, a Chantry ballad. _Cat’s favorite, the one about the shepherd and the dawn’s arrival._ Dread veiled her as quiet doused the camp, and then everyone began to sing. Her throat shrank. Against the roaring urge to flee, she steeled her nerves as heads rotated toward her. Devotion scalded those firelit faces, those exhausted gazes. Blackwall told her that it didn’t matter that she wasn’t actually Andraste’s Herald; all that mattered was that everyone _thought_ she was the Herald. _It matters to me._

Appetite ruined, Petrina slipped away as the singing dulled to chatter and faint emanations of hymnals. Her feet carried her up to the ramparts. Wind rustled at her hair, gentle despite its chilled bite. Hunching into her cloak, she rocked back on her heels. In her bones, she knew it wasn’t right for all those people to view her as a Herald, a holy figure, a _chosen one_. She wasn’t a chosen one. _Not much different from all those false promises the Chantry fed us after Kirkwall._ Rubbing at her cheeks, she pushed air through her lungs. Using their trust, their faith to further her ambitions, it was wrong.

Laughter emanated over her shoulder. She caught a flash of gold satin disappearing past a door. “You saw them too, I trust.” At the Orlesian accent, Petrina turned to find Leliana smirking beneath her cowl, gaze trained on the door their illustrious ambassador had passed through.

“It’s her business, not mine.”

“I don’t know a lot about Warden Blackwall,” Leliana continued, “he seems honorable, and a Warden I know told me there _was_ a Warden Blackwall stationed in Ferelden during the Blight.”

“You think it’s possible he stayed here all these years?” Petrina prompted. She doubted Wardens were permitted to ignore their duties to the rest of Southern Thedas. When Weisshaupt called, it was always her understanding that no Warden could refuse. They were a militaristic organization.

“I don’t know. Queen Brynn is missing, and Warden Amell is stationed in Weisshaupt, lacking access to most news from this part of Southern Thedas.” Leliana’s lips pursed. “I wrote her anyway, though. She might have knowledge we lack, particularly regarding this Corypheus.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Odd things happened after the Blight, in Amaranthine.”

The whole city teemed with darkspawn at one point, Petrina remembered. Artistic renditions were horrifying, showing insect-like darkspawn with human infant faces among the hordes of genlocks and hurlocks. There were even ogres mixed in, armored in silverite plate. Illustrations in her books showed a slight, female figure running silverite daggers across darkspawn throats or firing arrows into heads and hearts. Vigil’s Keep suffered most of the attack, though its walls held despite the losses the Wardens suffered. Those illustrations tended to depict a sun’s rays fanning out from the keep. No one had news of what happened in the Deep Roads after the battles on the surface, and the Wardens weren’t the sort to supply such information.

_And people say_ mages _keep secrets._ “You think that has any bearing here?” she asked.

Leliana tugged at her cowl. “It could,” she agreed, “and in any case, what’s the harm?”

“You’re right.” An apology scalded the tip of Petrina’s tongue. “This whole mess is confusing.”

“ _That_ it is,” Leliana said, relaxing a little. A coy grin quirked at her expression then. “You know, Cullen was asking about you.”

 “What’s so funny about that?” Petrina asked, fighting to school her features. She wasn’t sure what emotion was written on her face, but she knew _any_ movement would be detected by the Inquisition spymaster.

“Nothing,” Leliana lied.

“Tell me,” Petrina urged, concern welling in her. While she was accustomed to the swirl of rumors that mired people on obtaining a degree of notoriety, Cullen wasn’t. Knowing him, he would fly high and wide in every direction if he learned of any gossip about their relations.

Head ducking, Leliana clasped her hands. “Cassandra has said that we need a leader, and the Iron Bull agrees with that assessment, as does Vivienne.”

They did need a leader. Maker knew the advisors could scarcely agree on little more than the weather and the season. Yet, Petrina couldn’t help a twinge of unease. In her gut, she knew what was coming next. From the way those people looked at her to the _singing_ , there wasn’t any other way it _could_ go. “What are you suggesting?”

“ _I_ didn’t suggest it. Cassandra suggested it, and Cullen agreed.”

Knees weakening, Petrina pressed a hand to one of the ramparts’ parapets. Cold stone gnawed at her skin. Cullen agreed? Either his blood loss in Redcliffe was more severe than she thought or that lack of lyrium was addling his senses. “Are you mad?” she asked at last. “We’re fighting Tevinter cultists and you want a _mage_ as your Inquisitor?”

“If anything, your position could help change things, make them better for all mages and everyone the Chantry has ignored or harmed,” Leliana explained, patient as if teaching a child to walk.

“I’m surprised _Cassandra_ would suggest such a thing.”

“I was more surprised that Cullen agreed,” Leliana went on, glint sharp in her archer’s eyes.

“Yes, well, don’t go telling _him_ that,” Petrina advised. Whatever had changed between them, it was a welcome respite from their headbutting in Haven.

Leliana mimicked locking a key against her lips before heading off to find rest. Petrina lingered a moment on the ramparts, scouring the white for that odd crimson glow of red lyrium. Nothing but white lingered past the walls of Skyhold. That momentary comfort didn’t last. Her dreams flogged her with the stinging sear of red lyrium, the pulse of blades on frosted ground, and right before she woke to the blue etchings of pre-dawn, Cullen’s arms hefting her from numbing snows.

The next day was a blur as Josephine set to work inspecting every inch of Skyhold, often while drafting a letter on her tablet to contractors in Orlais. Dwarven stonemasons, to be precise. Expensive, though Skyhold needed _some_ work. Most of its rooftops contained holes, and many of the beds installed in the living areas were too dilapidated or infested to use. In the main hall, a massive iron chandelier lay before the throne’s dais. The throne was a source of dire fascination for Petrina, its silhouette resembling the one back home that her mother used to hold court. This one was different, being composed of rotting wood and tipped over long ago by looters. It would be replaced.

A patter of footsteps turned Petrina toward the small form of a page, extending a weathered letter. “Word from the University of Orlais, Worship.”

Taking the letter, Petrina flipped it over to reveal that owl breaking past a circle of sunlight in search of prey. Red wax, this time. _Ran out of your special candles, I take it?_ Snickering, she cracked the seal and read:

_Petra,_

_I heard about Haven. Something about the Templars sacking the place and sightings of an archdemon. I know we’ve never cared much for Templars, us two, but I can’t help and wonder what drove them to outright warfare against you. Even given your support of Grand Enchanter Fiona and her people, I can’t imagine the Templars waging warfare against you and this Inquisition you’ve been conscripted into joining._

_That reminds me, by the by. Your last letter was far more favorable than I anticipated, particularly given what a mess it followed. I sent word to your ambassador, and I’ve yet to hear back. I can only assume they’ve either forced your hand or something far worse has happened. Strange as it may seem, Cat is worried for you. We all are, save Mother. I doubt she worries even for Cat and Gregory anymore. Did I tell you about Gregory? He’s_ gone _, and no one knows where he’s off to, just that Cat is now heir to the bannorn. He isn’t dead, Cat’s too practical for that nonsense. She always had that dreadful saying, you’ll remember it: “The best rulers are the ones that evoke compassion in their subjects.” I remember teasing her that the best rulers are the ones that don’t_ have _subjects, and then she put ink in my tea. Dreadful woman._

_No word of Harry yet. Given the Templars that assaulted Haven, I can only hope the fool didn’t become one of them. Speaking of, by the time you get this I will be on my way to make sure you haven’t been brainwashed or something. I also have a legitimate excuse before you go tattling (as you are wont to do) to the University: my research will take me to Orlais, as I need more material on elves and their ruins._

_Love,_

_Rowan_

_P.S. Elise seems to be doing well. She visited me and we had macarons with tea on a balcony dappled in shade, framed in white filigreed woodwork… very picturesque. Cat would’ve fainted, but she couldn’t come because_ Mother.

Breath lodged in her throat as Petrina finished, and she reread the final paragraph. Elation was soon followed by anger. Rowan couldn’t come to Skyhold. While he was written off as the family troublemaker, he was _still_ a mundane. Him coming here would do none of them any favors with their family, not that Petrina expected much in aid from her cousins back home. _Mother is going to murder me when she hears about this_ , she realized with an icy flare of dread. More troubling than that was Harry’s lingering silence. Swiveling her signet ring, Petrina tipped her head toward the musty glass windows beyond the throne. Dull rays of sunlight attempted to streak beyond the filth’s murk. Behind her eyelids, scarlet radiated against Andraste’s flaming sword.

Nauseating as the prospect of asking for aid was, much less from people she’d been _indifferent_ toward at best, Petrina had no choice. Pocketing her letter, she stalked on through the hall with light footsteps. Cullen had been a Templar. Maker willing, he knew _something_ about the rest of the Order. If he didn’t, one of his number had maybe served in Tantervale. _You need only ask, you know._ It wasn’t as if she cared for Harry, but he was kin. She couldn’t leave him to become one of those _things_ that sacked Haven.

Outside, the grounds were awash in sunlight and the rampant streak of footprints in the snows. Scanning the crowds ahead, it took Petrina a moment to find that familiar blonde atop the ramparts. She took the steps up toward him, relieved he was alone. _For the moment._ “We’re going over supplies now, Herald,” Cullen greeted as she approached, “we’re not running from here.”

“That’s the plan,” she agreed. She cast a look over her shoulder before adding in a low voice, “I was actually hoping I could ask you about something.”

“You’re always free to ask,” he said, although she noticed the way he stiffened.

“Have you heard anything about Templars from the Tantervale Circle of Magi?”

“Most joined those that revolted from the Chantry,” Cullen replied.

“Naturally.” Petrina tugged at the cold steel clasp of her cloak, nails scraping at the flaming eye. Asking _him_ of all people was the last thing she wanted. Nothing but kindness scored those golden-brown irises of his, alongside terse patience she knew her own stare mirrored. “Ser Harold Trevelyan,” she recited, “is the brother I like the _least_ of the lot, but we’ve had no word of him since all this began. If you receive word of him, could you let me know?”

Cullen looked at her in earnest then, and sincerity branded his words, “You’ll be the first to hear if we do.”

“Good. Good.” _Nicely done._ Petrina lurched off without another word, warmth brimming in her veins. There was something about his kindness that set her on edge. _Perhaps it’s because you trust him._ Hands lodging themselves in her pockets, she shook her head.

* * *

 

Sometime after Josephine’s builders arrived and made decent headway in renovating Skyhold, people began migrating to Skyhold. At first, Petrina noticed one or two new faces in the usual crowds, but those numbers soon doubled, then tripled, quadrupled. Everyone seemed happier with the increased numbers in Skyhold, but all Petrina saw were more people to disappoint. She’d almost forgotten about the Inquisition’s lack of leadership until one midmorning when she emerged from her temporary quarters to find the grounds trapped beneath the sun’s golden illumination slanting over angled rooftops. Blinking past the sudden brush of light, Petrina glimpsed the advisors and Cassandra, huddled together. One by one, each of their eyes wafted over Petrina and dryness gripped her throat. It was Cassandra who approached as the others dissipated.

“More people come to Skyhold each day,” Cassandra said, nodding toward a crowd of women bearing halberds. “It’s becoming a pilgrimage.”

Grim certainty hardened in Petrina. “Word has reached the Elder One that we survived.”

“Perhaps, but we now know what drew him to you,” Cassandra said, gesturing for the mage to follow.

“Yes, well, he’s insane, so I don’t much care.” Petrina flexed her marked hand. Green whorled against marzipan as her hand caught the impending daylight.

Cassandra frowned as they began marching up the steps yawning toward Skyhold’s main entrance. “We all care because he sees in you what we do.”

_Maker’s blood, they’re not serious, are they?_ Heartbeat accelerating, Petrina chanced a look past Cassandra. “Your decisions in Haven let us heal the sky. Your determination led us out of the wilderness to Skyhold. The Inquisition needs a leader in the person that has already been leading it,” Cassandra went on, pausing on the landing. Beyond her, all Skyhold had clustered in the space below, against that vast area between the castle’s entrance and the main gates. Countless devoted and faithful eyes blinked back at the women. _Shit._ “You.”

Leliana emerged from the shadows of the castle’s entrance, a naked blade in her hand. Metallic flames fanned out against the hilt, which was crafted to resemble an eye. Bile beckoned in the back of Petrina’s throat as her hands grew clammy. They really were mad, and they really were going to make a _mage_ their Inquisitor. Fear seized her first, then regret as Ostwick’s gore-soaked halls flooded her head. She chanced a glance out at the crowd again, and her heart lodged in her throat as she found Cullen’s gaze. His scarred lips inched into a half-smile as he noticed her attention. _Leliana wasn’t lying, was she? He really_ did _support me in this. Why? Has everyone lost their minds?_

Against the nausea, Petrina extended her hand toward the sword’s hilt. Resolve hardened in her as sunshine lanced across her signet ring. _Modest in temper, bold in deed._

“Our concern,” Petrina called, “must be the order and safety of this world, not the next. Corypheus will face justice for what he’s done. No mage will be safe until he’s dealt with, and no person will be safe until his influence is wiped from this world. Whatever it takes, we will defeat him, and I will fight for all of us, mage and mundane alike, as Inquisitor, for as long you will have me.” Her hand fastened around the sword’s hilt. Cheers rang out in a deafening din of applause and claps. With a swallow, she hefted the blade skyward. Steel winked back at her as it stretched against clear blue heavens.

Celebrations rang out at Skyhold, yawning long into the evening. Josephine had repurposed one of the buildings on the grounds into a tavern, Herald’s Rest, and people flocked there to attempt drinking the Iron Bull _and_ his Chargers under the table. Out on the grounds, people were breaking open casks of mead and uncorking wine bottles. Petrina sat away from the celebrations, her head down, the full weight of her decision slicing at her with each resounding laugh or drunken song that made its way toward her. High on the ramparts, she could almost avoid their mirth, their reliance on her.

That was where Varric found her, hunched in one of the vacant offices on the ramparts. Given the large desk and the bookshelves, Petrina wagered this was going to be Cullen’s office. Varric sauntered in without a care, beaming as he made eye contact. “Firestarter!”

“Are you here of your own free will, or did someone send you?” Petrina asked, wariness shrouding her.

Varric’s smile faded. “I came up here to tell you that I know someone who has information on Corypheus,” he said, “and to ask that you be _discreet_ about it.”

“I doubt there’s a soul in Thedas that knows anything about Corypheus,” she confessed, head resting against the back of chair she’d claimed.

“Don’t be like that, just come meet my friend.”

It couldn’t hurt, Petrina supposed. She eased out of her seat with a groan as pain lanced up her legs in pins and needles. With a quick snap of magic, she soothed the lingering laziness in her limbs and followed Varric out past the drunken revelry. Up near the barracks, tucked into an isolated corner of Skyhold’s walls, was a woman with a staff on her back. _Wait._ Raven hair fell back against a delicate, heart-shaped face, revealing vivid, aquamarine irises. A shock of crimson war paint was smudged on her bare arm and swirled against a pale temple. Memories trickled back to Petrina, the hush of pages rustling, whispers in cramped rooms after curfew, gauntleted hands tight on sword hilts as the whip fell against an apprentice’s back. A name she’d invoked once to spur action, then compassion. A name every free mage uttered with reverent awe. _Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall._ “Inquisitor, meet Dahlia Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall,” Varric said, and from his tone, he was grinning.

“I don’t use that title anymore,” Hawke said.

Trapped between astonishment and admiration, Petrina shook the hand Hawke offered. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Hawke smirked as she surveyed her fellow mage. “You know, most Circle mages I knew were taller.”

“Aequitarians wear heels,” Petrina said, shrugging.

Hawke pealed with ribald laughter. “Varric,” she accused, “you didn’t mention that she’s _sarcastic_!”

“You never know what you’ll get with Firestarter,” Varric assured his friend with a wink, “I prefer keeping a distance of ten paces for good measure.”

Hawke rolled her eyes and then sighed as she leaned against a stone balustrade. “Well, Inquisitor, I hear you’ve got a darkspawn problem.”

“He talks and is coated in red lyrium, but yes,” Petrina said, “I suppose that does capture the issue.”

“Corypheus is a darkspawn,” Hawke assured the inquisitor, “though he thinks highly of himself. The Grey Wardens had imprisoned him using my father’s blood, although he’d found a way around that by taking control of them somehow.”

Pressing fingers to her temples, Petrina quelled a string of curses. “The Wardens here and in Ferelden have all vanished, save Blackwall.”

“And I heard he hasn’t been too helpful.” Hawke’s façade slipped then. “Carver said the Wardens were acting strangely, but that was before he was called back to Weisshaupt. I have another contact in the Wardens, Stroud, and he was investigating the disappearances the last time we spoke. If they’ve all disappeared, perhaps they’ve fallen under Corypheus’s control again.”

“Maker willing, it can be undone.”

Severity replaced Hawke’s earlier mischievousness. “I’m with you on that, Inquisitor.” Bitterness scorched her next words, “Corypheus was dead when we killed him, you know. This time, I’m going to make sure he stays dead.”

_A vendetta._ It didn’t matter much. What mattered was having the aid of a _real_ hero in defeating an ancient magister darkspawn. Petrina offered a firm nod. “I’ll meet you at Crestwood, Hawke.”

“Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t stick around. I hear Varric’s life hangs in the balance,” Hawke teased.

Varric grinned back, but it was weak. “I’ll see you to the gates, Hawke.”

“Oh, no worries there. I hear Sullen Cullen likes mages these days.” Hawke added that last part with a broad grin in Petrina’s direction.

“We’re civil,” Petrina said.

Somberness swept over Hawke. “You didn’t know him when I did. Compared to the man he was back then, even basic politeness is progress.”

“Brave of you to even approach a Circle as an apostate,” Petrina admitted.

“Sometimes I had no choice.” Hawke’s nose scrunched in reminiscent disdain. “ _Most_ of the time I had no choice.”

“At least you and Broody didn’t kill each other. The shouting matches you two got into,” Varric recalled, sentence dying beneath an ensuing shudder.

“Be grateful you never had to deal with an escaped Tevinter slave who had nothing but hatred for mages,” Hawke chimed to Petrina, “especially one like Fenris. He came around in the end, once Izzy and I bored it into his thick head.”

Isabela, Petrina knew, the Rivaini pirate Hawke loved. Chuckling weakly at the memories, Varric inclined to Hawke. “Come on, we’d best get you out of here before Cassandra gets wind of things.”

“Maybe you should try _not_ lying to people.”

“Rivaini made me _promise_ to keep you out of danger.”

Together, Varric and Hawke retreated downstairs toward Skyhold’s gates. Petrina watched Varric’s red tunic fade into the darkness and flickering of firelight. Verdant listed at her hand, a prick of discomfort as a crisp reminder. Corypheus changed the anchor when he used that orb of his on it, an elven focus according to Solas. _“I don’t know how people will react when they learn elves made that orb,”_ he’d said, the closest he had to a plea. What remained unspoken was obvious: elves would be impacted far worse than the mages when word broke of that orb’s origins. Petrina shared _that_ information with Leliana alone. Her agents would keep the news hidden, for now. Everyone was far too jumpy.

_Some of us have excuses, like our lives resting on a thread._ The rustle of cloth at her side made Petrina’s heart leap. Accompanying that sound was the slight echo of blue lyrium. “I saw Hawke out,” Cullen explained.

“I suppose Varric must have told you, then, if you’re not _outraged_ that he hid this from the Inquisition,” Petrina mused.

“He did,” Cullen conceded, cheeks darkening against the wan light.

“It would’ve been _nice_ to know Hawke was coming before I met her.” Thrusting back a wave of guilt at how Cullen’s features pinched, Petrina softened her tone when she spoke next, “I simply mean that I would’ve appreciated you informing me of Hawke’s impending arrival.”

Comprehension replaced his prior discomfort. “I didn’t even know if you were going to live that night I learned, Inquisitor…”

“Stop with the titles,” she interrupted. “Use my name.”

“That doesn’t change the truth, _Petrina_ ,” he said, and the terseness in his voice belied profound concern, “I found you half-dead in the snows. One moment, I thought you were dead, and the next I was praying that you held on until morning.”

Against the numbness clawing at her senses, she latched onto the last few words that registered against the din of blood in her ears. “You prayed for me?”

“Is that so shocking? You’re our Herald, our Inquisitor, without you, we very well could’ve started _another_ war with the mages.”

A giggle burst from her. “Things aren’t that bad. Leliana would’ve brought you to your senses.”

“None of us can reach them the way you can,” Cullen said.

“You have _some_ sense in that thick skull of yours.”

He awarded her with a slight chortle. “One could say the same of you.”

“They have, many times.” _Like Vivienne._

“And here I thought you had no self-awareness.”

“I have too much, sometimes,” Petrina assured him.

Cullen’s brows rose, though they soon relaxed into a tentative smile. “People say the same thing about me.”

Petrina’s reply was drowned out by the abrupt arrival of a red-faced scout. Breathless, the scout glimpsed between Cullen and Petrina. “Inquisitor,” the scout rasped, “there’s a gentleman in the main hall asking to speak with you.”

“Who?” she asked.

“He didn’t identify himself, Milady.”

Caution blistered in Cullen’s inquiring glance. Remembering Rowan’s words in his letter, Petrina pulled her shoulders back. “I’ll speak with him.” The scout scampered off with a fist to his chest.

Once the scout was out of earshot, Cullen lifted a blonde brow. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“None of it is _wise_ ,” she groused, “but none of us could ever tell Rowan what to do.” With a hasty apology, she sauntered down the ramparts to the castle’s main hall. Past the grounds, all was steeped in shadow and silence. Josephine’s builders had managed to heft the chandelier back in its place, and its candles cast a dim filter of illumination against the room. Her furnishers had replaced the broken tables and seated at one near the rotunda was a lean young man. Jet hair fringed a marzipan face, and impish silver irises slithered toward Petrina as she approached. All speech left her as their gazes locked.

_“Whatever happens in the Circle or at the University, you are my family and my dearest friend,”_ he’d said that fateful morning before he went to Orlais. Young pinky fingers had twisted taut against each other, securing a potent promise.

“Mother is going to kill me,” Petrina whispered as her feet pulled her toward him.

“I doubt she can be bothered these days,” Rowan said, “considering Gregory’s run off with the love of his life or something like that.” He opened his arms wide. “Come on, now, let’s get this dreadful affection over with.”

Grinning, she relinquished herself to his embrace. He reeked of pine and frost, despite the rich dark velvet he was swathed in. “I can’t believe you got past the red Templars and demons,” she admitted as she stepped back.

He chucked her beneath her chin. “The Templars taught me how to use a blade, Petra.”

She then noticed the twin daggers at his hips, both sporting worn crimson leather hilts. “Are those from the Order?” she asked.

“Someone must have sold them, and the idiot just took the things without asking.” Rowan shrugged, his carefree demeanor wilting a tad as he continued scrutinizing her. “You need to be honest with me, are they keeping you here?”

“No,” she said, easing against the edge of the table. Not anymore, at any rate, although even then she’d had a _choice_. As much as anyone had a choice between persecution and servitude. “They’ve named me Inquisitor.”

Rowan whistled through his teeth. “Do they _know_ you?”

“I asked them the same thing. They don’t seem to care that I’m, well… you know.”

“The charming youngest daughter of House Trevelyan?” he supplied.

She rolled her eyes, soaking up the restored stonework of the ceiling while she gathered her thoughts. “You’re staying, then?”

“Assuming Mother doesn’t invade Orlais, yes.”

“You’re not funny,” Petrina muttered, nudging her boot’s toe against his shin.

“I’m not leaving little Petra to save the world on her lonesome.”

“I’m _petite_ ,” she corrected.

Rowan howled with laughter. “Sure you are, and I’m the emperor of Orlais.”

A door inched open. Petrina braced for Solas to emerge in a huff over his dreams in the Fade being disrupted. Instead, she was greeted with Dorian in rumpled beige satin and a disheveled mustache, his coif mussed beyond recognition. “My dear,” Dorian huffed, “if you’re going to have a private celebration for your newfound prestige, might I suggest doing it when I’m _not_ sleeping in the room right next to your noisemaking?”

“Oh, you poor dear,” she cooed in Tevene.

He winced, probably at her accent, and then his grey-hazel eyes slipped toward Rowan. “I don’t suppose you’re any less pigheaded than our Inquisitor here?”

“Rowan, this is Dorian of House Pavus,” Petrina said, “and Dorian, this is my twin brother.”

“I surmised that you weren’t one of the Templars because you don’t reek of lyrium,” Dorian clipped, although he did extend a hand.

Rowan emitted a wild grin as he shook. “Templars couldn’t handle _my_ method of worshiping Andraste.”

“I don’t advise advertising that,” Petrina said, though she wagered Leliana knew about Rowan’s expulsion from the Templars by now.

“Wonderful, Inquisitor, he’s _far_ more inclined towards blasphemy than you,” Dorian replied as his hand fell back to his side.

“Maker’s blood,” Petrina swore, “does _no one_ remember my name anymore?”

“Your title carries respect,” Dorian said. Something radiated against the seriousness of his tone. _Sorrow._ Rowan gave a gaping yawn at her side.

“Did anyone grant you living quarters?” she prompted her brother.

“They took my bags and assigned me a room further in the castle, beneath yours, of course.”

Petrina’s mouth dipped into a frown. She’d heard nothing about new living quarters, not for _her_. Knowing Josephine, that was meant to be a surprise. _I didn’t earn anything like that._ “Did they show you to them?”

“I can find my way, _Inquisitor_ ,” Rowan uttered in a nasal croon.

She aimed a light kick in his direction, and he retreated with a chuckle and a slight dash of his two forefingers. Once his footsteps had retreated up the nearest stairwell, Dorian cleared his throat. “I received a letter from Felix.”

The friend in Redcliffe, Petrina remembered, a kind sort in yellow satin, plagued with Blight. The whole reason Magister Alexius was even willing to attempt destroying the world and aiding Corypheus. “You don’t seem thrilled,” Petrina said.

“He stood on the Senate floor and told them about you.” Dorian dropped down into one of the new, cushioned chairs at the table, lacing his fingers together against his chin. “Felix always was as good as his word, you know, true to a fault that one.”

Emptiness dropped over Petrina. _“Was.” Past tense._ “Are you alright?”

“He was ill and on borrowed time anyhow.”

“You don’t fool anyone, least of all me.”

Dorian’s next breath was uncertain and shaking. “He used to sneak me treats from the kitchen. I told him to stop it, that I didn’t want him getting into trouble on my account. He’d just grin and say, ‘I like trouble.’”

Petrina shifted her weight between her legs, arms crossing against a slight chill that slithered through the hall. She didn’t offer any words to the quiet that formed between them. Dorian broke the solitude first with a sharp sigh. “No one will thank _me_ , whatever becomes of this mess.” He slid a bloodshot glare in her direction. “No one will thank you, either. I trust you know that. You’re not as idealistic as some of this lot.”

Teary silver irises flared in Petrina’s thoughts, hysterical from a lack of lyrium. Past Elise, there was the blood soaking Circle corridors. Palpable anger and defiance at existence. Chantry inaction. Templar hands bunching against velveteen robes. Flames engulfing Haven. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

Dorian’s wilted mustache quirked upward. “And they say you’re thick in the head.”

Elbowing him, Petrina quipped back, “What can I say? It’s Tuesday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hysteric sobbing* The bar exam is in a week. I've learned through Tumblr and the Wiki forums that I dislike the pro-Chantry and the anti-Chantry zealots in equal measure (just like IRL politics, lol, except maybe a dash more dislike for the "Chantry is great and never did anything wrong" crowd). Um... oh, shout out to SpaceConveyor for always commenting, you make me smile. If you comment, you all will make me smile and give me courage to get through this horrendous exam that will determine my career and my worth as an individual person. I've legitimately been crying over practice questions. It's not healthy. BUT... it's fine. Maybe. Possibly. I know things. If I can just think and slow down, trust myself. Trust. Trusts. Trusts require property, a trustee, a beneficiary, and a settlor with the current intent to... *shakes head*
> 
> So yeah, this post is for me to get through my anxiety over EVERYTHING bar-related. (I'm going on vacation afterwards, and that will be AWESOME.) Blah, blah, blah, I'm not a lawyer, I'm not your lawyer, there is no legal advice here or anywhere. *Hits head* So. Um... I like mages. They're magically delicious. *Winks* Just not blood magic. *Shudders in open revulsion* It nauseates me, the animations for it, and I can't tell you why. Oh, and if you want to know... I am on Tumblr, ranting about shit, defending not-real people, posting gifs about that shoddy Cats trailer... xD My Tumblr is: theladythecla . tumblr . com :3


	15. Perseverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Haven, Cullen launches full-force into his duties. Without the potions he used in Haven to staunch his lyrium headaches, he finds his patience thinner than usual. Josephine begins planning for Orlais. Leliana receives word from a cherished redheaded mage. Petrina and Cullen, no longer at odds, struggle to navigate this strange new peace between each other. Cole meddles because he's here to help.

No one at Skyhold was up before the sun’s rosy rising that next morning, no one but Cullen. He was busy poring over a report from one of Leliana’s agents in the Dales. According to Agent Lavellan, a man matching Samson’s description had been spotted among the red Templars in the Graves. They were moving vast wagons of red lyrium through the green trees. Given that the area was home to the Orlesian nobility’s summer estates, all of which were vacated due to the war there, Cullen had no doubts the red Templars could do whatever they wished. What saddened him was that his suspicions were proven correct. Samson, for all his faults, had been one of the few in Kirkwall that tried helping mages. It didn’t always work out, as in one case where he almost sold a boy into slavery. Hawke was involved in finding the boy, although the reports from the guard insisted the lad fled into the hills. None of that mattered now. What mattered was that Samson had abandoned the tenets of the Order and his personal beliefs.

Slamming the report down on his new desk, Cullen sucked in a deep breath as pain spider-veined through his skull. Without his potions, the aches were worse. He’d lost his potions in the chaos at Haven. The healer he saw insisted that he wean himself from dependency on those potions, lest he trade one addiction for another. While he couldn’t argue with the logic, his headaches were a potent distraction. They ranged from biting migraines to quick nips of agony at his temples. Voices outside his door tore his attention from the report on his desk.

One of the voices faded from range, but the other one sent a jolt of warmth to his chest. He schooled his features as best he could without a looking glass as the door fell open. In she sauntered, swathed in peacock blue velvet and fitted dark breeches. “Josephine wants a war meeting after breakfast,” Petrina greeted, that red mouth of hers pursing as she studied him. His throat shrank at the intensity of her scrutiny. She had to know, given what she’d spilled that night the red Templars sacked Haven about her sister’s past with the Templars. It had been an outburst against Cassandra’s rampant piety, but Cullen caught the words plain as the drumming of his heart in his ears.

“I’ll be there,” Cullen heard himself say.

“You seem out of sorts.”

Pain lanced at his brow. He slapped the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Just a headache.”

“Yes, and I’m the daughter of Andraste herself,” she quipped.

Dread pitted him. Would she understand? Knowing her, she’d fall back to subtle, sarcastic mockery. He had no proof of that, though. She saved his life, after all. Perhaps she’d understand, given her history with her sister. When he moved to speak, the words didn’t come. More pain ripped at his head. “Inquisitor, was there something you needed?” he asked, terser than he intended.

She didn’t mind his sudden shift in tone. Rather, concern streaked across her features. The emotion was foreign against her ironclad composure. Alongside the concern, he glimpsed a flicker of familiarity. She didn’t pry. “No,” she clipped, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, _Commander_.” He winced as she spun on her heel, retreating in a whirl of teal cloth and a flap of dark hair. _Nicely done._

Quelling a groan, he shoved a fist against the nearest patch of wall, cringing as stone gnawed at his bare knuckles. He’d apologize later, explain everything. With a sigh, he rubbed vainly at his pounding temples and resumed his reading. Hours later, hunger chewing at his stomach and his headache waning, a page materialized in his office stating that Inquisitor Trevelyan had called a meeting in the war room. Hot-faced and brimming with shame over his previous loss of composure, Cullen stalked off toward the main hall. On his way into the castle’s main body, he glimpsed a pale young man trading jests with Dorian, silver irises bright and mischievous as they studied the few Inquisition members out on the grounds. _Rowan_ , Cullen knew. Taller than Petrina by a few heads, but that long, slim nose and the similar face shapes belied a strong resemblance beyond mere siblings. There was no doubt that they were twins. Stalking past the pair, Cullen navigated the trek toward the war room.

One of the builders had hacked down one of the large dead trees on the grounds and fashioned a table from the stump. Over the top of this stump, Josephine’s decorators had placed the Inquisition’s map of Southern Thedas, and the advisors had spent a long night replacing pins and knives in the map marking their achievements. Cullen arrived to find the room unoccupied, save for that table. He peered at the table just once before the door gusted open, jostling the pins loosely clinging to the map and wood beneath. Leliana sauntered in first, trailed close behind by Josephine. Petrina was at their heels, her head buried in a letter, her complexion greening at the gills. “I don’t understand why he wants a meeting,” she went on, “doesn’t he know that I was finished with Orlesians a _long_ time ago?”

Those words set Cullen on edge. He couldn’t keep himself from prompting, “What are you talking about?”

Leliana answered him, eyes glinting beneath her cowl against the early light leaching past the windows behind the war table, “A wealthy lord from Orlais has learned that our Inquisitor is single and from the _illustrious_ House Trevelyan of Ostwick.”

“We don’t need an alliance in the region anyway,” Josephine went on, pecking her pen at her tablet.

“He’s a minor chevalier,” Leliana agreed, “I’m surprised he had even the boldness to reach out.”

_As am I_ , Cullen reflected, attention darting to Petrina. She curled the paper in her fist. Smoke plumed from her hand, and when her fingers unfurled, ash fell around her. Josephine squeaked at the ruined letter. “I would have _liked_ that for our records,” she groused.

“ _I_ wouldn’t have,” Petrina said, “do you have any clue how distracting tripe like that can be? It’s worse than that awful _Randy Dowager Quarterly_ someone keeps smuggling in.”

Leliana smirked at the younger woman. “You never know what leverage we can get out of an embarrassing letter written in a moment of indiscretion.”

Cullen veiled his mounting amusement at the distaste curdling Petrina’s otherwise nonchalant stoicism. “Such a pity,” she deadpanned.

“At _any_ rate,” Josephine cut in with hazel glares between Cullen and Leliana, “you said you had word from Varric’s friend.”

“Dahlia Hawke said she has a Warden friend out in Crestwood who might know something about what’s going on,” Petrina explained, “but I have no staff.”

“ _That_ should be simple enough to rectify,” Leliana chirped, “an arcanist named Dagna has gained notoriety across the Southern and Imperial Circle systems, and she’s agreed to lend the Inquisition her lyrium-smithing skills at a discounted rate.”

Josephine’s sculpted brows shot up. “She _has_?”

“Brynn worked with Felicity Amell to get Dagna into the Fereldan Circle,” Leliana said, “Dagna recognized my name, as I was with Brynn when she and Alistair went to Orzammar during the Blight.”

The benefits of having connections. One problem was that even the most skilled lyrium smith would need time to make a staff, and Cullen doubted _Petrina_ of all people would want to wait. “We must have _some_ staffs that weren’t lost to the red Templar attack,” he pointed out.

“I don’t need one, but it’s nice to have, helps focus my casting,” Petrina added, silver irises boring into his. The full weight of his earlier harshness hit him. Something akin to understanding lay beneath that stare of hers.

“You should have one, as a fallback,” Josephine said, pen scratching at her tablet. “I’ll see to it that Dagna gets to work one right away.”

“And _I_ will see if any of my people have one they can lend you in the meanwhile,” Leliana chimed.

“Good.” Petrina fixed her attention on the map. “Do we know anything else about these red Templars?”

Leliana’s blue eyes turned to Cullen, and Josephine’s pen stilled against her paper. _Here we go._ “Agent Lavellan has said that they are moving caravans of red lyrium through the Emerald Graves. I’d like to debrief you personally, later,” he answered, face flaming beneath Petrina’s exacting and placid focus.

“Very well,” she said, “is there anything further?”

“The war in Orlais continues to rage,” Josephine chimed, “the Dales are war torn and many people in the region have fled to the safety of Val Royeaux. Any help you could provide Orlais would strengthen our positions there, as I believe the war is drawing to an end. As per their custom, Orlais will hold a grand ball to host the peace talks.”

“Yes, and this awful future you experienced took place in a time when Empress Celene had been assassinated,” Leliana offered, “which means the killer must be hiding in one of the factions that will attend that ball.”

“A _ball_?” Cullen asked, unable to keep the derision from his voice. Orlais, he’d learned during his time in the Order, was lavish and opulent to the point of ludicrous extremity. Ending wars with festivities seemed frivolous, more so than the ridiculous designs on their armor. Thankfully, he’d had to work little with Orlesian Templars, but the armor was the thing he remembered the most, alongside the snide accents and condescension. “Orlesians end their wars with _parties_?”

Petrina rubbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. “Are we going to have masks?”

“Is attendance mandatory?” Cullen added under his breath.

Josephine gaped between the former Templar and Circle mage. Tucking her pen behind her ear, she planted a hand on her hip. “The Inquisition _must_ attend if we are to gain _any_ favor with Orlais. Their armies are well-trained and disciplined, which means they could be very useful in combatting Corypheus’s red Templars.”

Leliana readjusted one of her mauve gloves. “More importantly, we must stop Corypheus, and that means saving the empress from assassination.”

“We’ll need more influence in the Dales,” Josephine stipulated.

“We’ll keep our ears to the ground for opportunities to increase the Inquisition’s ties with Orlais,” Leliana said.

“And in the meantime, Inquisitor, Magister Alexius still awaits judgment.”

On hearing those words, Petrina’s shoulders fell. “I know.”

“It is not a matter to take lightly. Many will look to the Inquisition for guidance through these difficult times. They will likely use your decisions as precedent in other courts,” Josephine continued, “the throne has been prepared when you are ready.”

Petrina nodded, though her attention was elsewhere from the glaze her expression donned. Cullen didn’t envy her that decision. Everyone would be watching how the former Libertarian punished a dangerous Tevinter mage. On that note, they adjourned. Cullen lingered a moment over the war table. Petrina didn’t join Leliana and Josephine as they retreated. Once the door slammed shut, Petrina fixed him with one of those penetrating glances, cutting right past his careful façade. He swore she could see the lack of lyrium chewing at his patience. Or perhaps that was just the incoming headache. “You wanted to speak privately,” she pointed out, blunt as ever.

_You can’t blame her, can you?_ “Yes,” he said, hand migrating to the back of his neck. “A man I knew in Kirkwall is among the red Templars. Samson.”

Recognition flashed across her features. “I know the name,” she conceded, color scalding her cheeks. “He was one of the people helping mages in the Gallows, right? That’s what the gossip said, at any rate.”

“And a notorious lyrium addict,” Cullen replied, “his addiction interfered so severely with his duties that he was stripped of rank and shield before being cast out of the Order.”

“How do you know he’s with the red Templars?”

“Agent Lavellan’s report confirmed the sighting.” It was hard to keep the emotion from his words. Samson had been one of the good ones in Kirkwall. The notion of him serving some ancient magister darkspawn was difficult to swallow and served as a potent reminder that fates weren’t carved in stone. In another life, Cullen knew he’d have been Samson. That wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“You seem concerned. More than usual, I mean.”

“He will be dangerous,” Cullen said, struggling to remember Samson that night over Haven. It was impossible to tell from the distance, but even that far away, there were no red lyrium facets protruding from Samson’s body. He either hadn’t ingested much red lyrium, or he was resistant to it. Neither prospect was comforting.

“ _Everything_ is dangerous.”

“You know what I mean,” Cullen said, massaging the bridge of his nose as an ache pricked at his skull.

“What do you suggest?”

“If,” he started, pausing as the pain traveled to his temples, “ _when_ you go to the Dales, I’ll go with you.”

“Will you be standing upright for that journey?” she needled. Though one corner of her lips was upturned, her brows plunged as she surveyed him.

_I look terrible, don’t I?_ “I am sorry,” he answered instead, “for my short temper earlier.”

“It’s not the first time someone has been short with me, and I gave you worse in Haven,” she assured him. There wasn’t any levity in her words. “However, I _am_ concerned about your lack of lyrium. You don’t seem to be handling it well. Elise looked better than you after less than a year without lyrium, and that’s saying something.”

_To the point, indeed_ , he scoffed, head ducking against another onslaught. “I’ll be fine.”

Her words gurgled with sluggish pacing in his ears. “Will you?”

_Will you?_ Through narrowed eyelids, he peered back at her. There was a genuine question written into her soft features. The concern lashing her expression astonished him. He hadn’t thought her capable of that emotion, least of all when it came to him. _She saved your life._ “I will. And…” Forcing back beckoning nausea, he straightened. “At any rate,” he began again, “I’ve asked Cassandra to watch me. If this interferes with my duties to the Inquisition, she will relieve me of my duties.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Petrina said.

_For now._ “As you say, Inquisitor.”

Bitter laughter tore from her. “Inquisitor Trevelyan,” she mused aloud, easing against the edge of the war table. “It sounds odd, don’t you think?”

Those words were slow to register with Cullen. He’d heard her express doubt before, but rarely with respect to herself. “Not at all. You’ve proven yourself.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her lips twisting, “as a _good_ mage.”

“You were a good mage long before you came here,” Cullen said, reciting information he’d gleaned from Leliana’s reports. “You were made our inquisitor because you’re a good leader.”

“If you knew how many people had died under my command, you wouldn’t say that.”

Kirkwall came back in searing crimson to the fore of his mind. A dozen or so shields lost in Kirkwall, men and women who gave their lives to the Order, who protected and championed the innocent, a large portion of them under his command. Granted, he’d been following the orders of a delusional superior, but everyone under him had in turn marched to their deaths. If he dwelled too long on it, he remembered the reek of copper and lyrium scorching the night, Hawke’s eyes blazing like turquoise as she hefted her staff high, prayers murmured in the darkness. Much of it was a haze, and in that way, Cullen knew he was lucky despite the nightmares that dogged his sleep. “You can’t control what happens when things fall apart,” he uttered at length.

“People who rely on you will always take your words as gospel,” she countered, folding her arms.

He drifted back to her slaying of the Fereldan Frostback out in the Hinterlands. She’d adamantly refused aid from Inquisition soldiers. While he thought her foolish for taking the risk in the first place, he understood why she didn’t want people dying for her now. _Oliver Adair. The people she watched perish in Ostwick to that pride abomination._ “I imagine you’ll make it rather clear that you’re _not_ a holy figure.”

“I doubt anyone will accept me as a holy figure,” Petrina went on, “but if they do, then all of their deaths will be on my shoulders.”

“Most people don’t think that way, Inquisitor.”

“They do with _mages_ ,” she backlashed, “or have you forgotten how we were treated after the revolt? We were branded criminals for demolishing our prisons. None of us wanted the Kirkwall Chantry explosion, but one possessed apostate was all it took for us to be labeled dangerous outlaws.”

_I wonder who helped with that._ Cullen swatted that thought aside. The fervor that clung to her words was wrought with exasperation and exhaustion. “You don’t need to bear the burden of leadership alone,” he said without pause. It took him a moment to realize what he’d spoken, and the words didn’t settle until he glimpsed the shock rippling across her expression. “I— _we_ —are here to help you, Inquisitor.” Warmth gripped his cheeks, warring for dominance against the familiar tingle of pins and needles in his head.

“I _am_ grateful,” she said, and despite the sternness lacing her tone he noted a hint of compassion. Her harshness faded as she ducked her head. A gentle smile threaded itself over her ruddy lips. “I’m relieved you made it out of Haven alive.”

_As am I._ Against the cotton clotting his mouth, he nodded. “I expect your brother is relieved that you survived as well,” he said.

“He’s mostly speechless that I’m a holy icon for a Chantry organization.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Her hand shook a tad at the gesture, and verdant glowed against her skin. Nothing in her face belied any discomfort. “I expect he’s going to need time to adjust.”

“Leliana’s information mentioned that he once trained with the Templars.”

“He didn’t last. The night before he was due to take his vigil, he got rather drunk with some friends and made some inappropriate advances on an Andrastian statue.”

Quelling the surprise radiating through him with a cough, Cullen scratched at the back of his head. The conversation was a wonderful distraction from the pain leaching at his brain. “A statue? I knew people who did far worse the night before their vigil and were still knighted.”

“Not him,” Petrina said, “this was a _Chantry_ statue and one of our distant uncles was a brother at the monastery where Rowan had trained.”

“That would make things more difficult.”

“There’s no other way for House Trevelyan,” she assured him. Tucking a yawn against her palm, she left him to the war room’s solace. Cullen drank in a deep breath after the door fell shut against the jamb. It was the most civil they’d been to each other in a long while, and his headache was gone. Yet, beneath the hope pulsing in his veins was a trickle of unease. There was something transfixing about her, now that she’d stopped railing against him on every miniscule disagreement. Now that she smiled in his presence. _She’s the Inquisitor and you’re at war. Moreover, she’s finally stopped seeing you as a Templar._ He didn’t dare breach this fragile peace between them, especially with her twin brother hovering at an arm’s distance. Pushing the thought of her from his consciousness, he hurried out of the war room and into the main hall.

A crowd was gathering near the throne’s dais, and when the main keep doors opened, Cullen knew why. Chained and emaciated in patched hand-me-down robes, dragged between a pair of Inquisition guards, was Magister Alexius. On the dais, Petrina had taken her seat. Josephine had replaced the throne with one cushioned in red velvet and accented in an iron rendition of Andraste’s flaming eye. Several wavy metal spires protruded from the chair’s back in homage to the Inquisition insignia. Petrina was a few inches shorter than the back of the throne, and the rap of her fingers at its arms signaled her dread at the impending sentence. Against his better judgment, Cullen lingered in the crowd. Josephine read out each count of the charges levied against Alexius, noting that he’d lost his magister title and rank, and that Tevinter had washed its hands of the man.

Quiet dipped over the room once Josephine went silent. “I couldn’t save my son,” Alexius snarled to Petrina, “nothing matters now.”

“For all your faults, you are a brilliant man,” Petrina said, “and you swore to my people you would help them. I will have you uphold that promise.”

He blinked back at her, contempt shriveling his reedy face. “A headsman would’ve been kinder.”

“Every coin you own will go to Grand Enchanter Fiona and her people,” Petrina continued, “as will every ounce of knowledge you possess. Step by step, you will repay them the debt you owe _and_ maybe learn a little humility in doing so.”

Alexius threw something back in Tevene. Petrina ignored him, jutting her chin toward the guards. Mute, the soldiers led the Tevinter away. The crowd dissipated in batches, each whispering past gilded masks or cupped hands. Petrina hopped off the throne without pause, hurrying toward the nearest door. “Didn’t see that one coming,” Dorian hummed to Cullen’s left. He staunched an insult as he shifted toward the Tevinter. “There is some justice in it, I suppose.”

“You were his apprentice,” Cullen said, “I’m surprised you’re not ecstatic.”

Dorian clasped his hands over his heart in mock offense. “ _Commander_ , you wound me with your utter inability to listen.” Distance in his deep grey stare belied his true feelings. “I’d hoped Alexius could be of some use to the Inquisition, at least as a researcher, but given his behavior at Redcliffe, this is fair enough.” His hands fell to his sides. “Nothing is ever perfect. I’m glad she didn’t take his head off, at least, or _worse_.”

A pall dipped over the men. Cullen caught the implication. Tranquility was the nightmare of most mages, alongside the barbaric treatment mages suffered under the Qun. He didn’t understand the Rite too well, but he knew imposition of the brand was permanent. Rumors abounded before the rebellion that there was a way to break Tranquility, that someone had lied to the mages about it being irreversible. “She wouldn’t do that,” he said.

“I imagine not,” Dorian agreed, tugging at a curled end of his mustache, “but you never know with Southern mages. Tranquility down here is ordinarily not used to silence dissent. Back home, Tranquility is a powerful means of eliminating weak rivals or families that fall from favor, if one wishes.” Shuddering, he inclined his head toward the throne. “You never know where someone like my dear cousin Inquisitor might stand on an issue, for instance.”

“I’m surprised Tevinter even uses the Rite,” Cullen said, “your Templars are, by all accounts, hedonistic guards and little more.”

“They don’t use lyrium like your lot do, and they are rather odd when it comes to grapes and feathers, but make no mistake, they still watch for abuses of magic. They still have the power under the Chantry to make mages Tranquil, for example.”

Rubbing at his jaw, Cullen conceded that he hadn’t learned much of Tevinter beyond his encounters with infiltrators in Kirkwall. Rumor had it that Hawke clashed with Tevinter mages often in Kirkwall. Blood magic was all anyone heard in those days, though. He never bothered researching more on Tevinter to learn if his perceptions of it were accurate. His duties to the Templar Order ensured that he didn’t travel further than a few miles outside Kirkwall. _Petrina has been to Tevinter._ “I see.”

“At any rate, our Inquisitor is hard to read sometimes, and while she didn’t chain the mages in Redcliffe, she comes down hard on blood magic and demons. Understandably so, but she’s not one to let a grudge drop easily.”

“No,” Cullen concurred, recalling their countless clashes in Haven.

Dorian stuffed his hands in his pockets. “She seems to have a soft spot for you these days, though.”

Cullen didn’t count basic politeness and conversation as having a _soft spot_ , but he’d take anything over their earlier shouting matches. “In _your_ opinion,” he reminded the mage.

Dorian bristled, scuffing the metal toe of a ridiculous boot against fresh scarlet carpet. “Shocking as it might seem, Commander, I pay attention.” The metal ornaments on his gaudy outfit jingled as he stalked toward the library.

_Weird man_ , Cullen finalized as he migrated to the ramparts.

* * *

 

Petrina left for Crestwood three days after judging Alexius. Cullen watched her teal cloak snap against the Frostbacks’ harsh winds as her black gelding surged down the road. The others with her were easy enough to recall, even from a distance: Warden Blackwall, Varric, and Sera. Part of Cullen wondered if Cassandra had discovered Varric’s deceit yet. Few people had been conscious or sober the night Hawke arrived. Cassandra was no fool, of course. Someone would’ve mentioned it to her, maybe Leliana in a spell of guilt.

Without the Inquisitor, Skyhold seemed quieter. Cullen came to dread the nights, when his thoughts kept him preoccupied long after his captains left his office. Reality blurred when snow fell outside, landlocking him to his cramped quarters. Sometimes, his mind conjured images of Felicity Amell in her golden mage robes, all bright-eyed after her Harrowing ritual. Other times, he swore Knight-Commander Meredith was outside his door demanding news about some alleged blood mage who escaped the Circle and sought safety in the wilds outside Kirkwall. The worst visions were the ones of Petrina, a silent accusation in her metallic stare. Once or twice, Cullen caught his hand migrating towards the worn wooden box beneath his desk. That box contained his lyrium philter and several unused draughts. As with one who jolted awake after nearly falling asleep during a meeting, Cullen always yanked his hand back before the damage was done. He started hiding his box in places he couldn’t access, atop tall cupboards, within locked drawers. The list was almost unending. None of it did any good.

Until one night when Cullen reached for his box in search of relief from the agony shearing his skull in half and he didn’t find it. He spent half that night tearing his office apart, searching for the thing. Perplexed and fatigued, he slumped to the floor behind his desk in pitiful surrender. “She likes you better without the lyrium.” Bewildered, he rammed his head into the corner of his desk as he lurched to his feet. The boy from Haven was across that large desk, pale-eyed and flaxen-haired, face obscured by a hat’s enormous brim. _Cole_ , Cullen faintly recalled, _he came to warn us, to help us._

Hand clutching at the welt developing against his head, Cullen struggled to staunch the impending irritation spurred by the _additional_ pain. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Blue eyes bore into mine across a crowded hall. Whispered threats in quiet rooms. _No one will believe you._ ”

That last sentence sliced clean through Cullen’s fogged thoughts. _Petrina._ “What are you?” he asked, fingers coiling against his curls as another ache ripped at his skull.

“I came to help,” Cole said.

“You can’t help me. No one can help me,” Cullen groused, falling back to the floor. Cold stone was almost consoling to the white-hot pain boiling his head. Cheek pressing to the floor, he drank in the rough surface’s coolness with rabid delight.

“Eyes gentle and brown find mine across a shadowed room. _No, I don’t think I could._ ”

_Petrina._ The image of her, lit with the soft illumination wafting in through diamond-paned windows, head bowed, mouth shaped in a grin, came to him again. _“I’m relieved you made it out of Haven alive.”_ Cooling relief pulsed in Cullen’s head, accompanied by the faint brush of fingers. Too soon, sleep’s vacant grasp dragged him under.

That night was the first Cullen didn’t dream of Kirkwall or Ferelden in a long while. When he woke, it was to stiffness in his limbs and Leliana’s concerned blue eyes hovering over him. “Do you _always_ sleep on the floor?” the former Left Hand teased. A paper flapped in her hand. Cullen stood, careful to avoid aggravating the welt he felt bruising the side of his head.

“No,” he said, reaching for the paper. “Is that word from Crestwood?”

“Not yet. To hear Scout Harding tell it, Crestwood is nothing but rain and dead bodies.” Leliana’s mouth thinned into a line. “This is from Weisshaupt. As you knew her also, I imagined you’d want to see this.”

_Felicity Amell._ The letter was sealed in red wax emblazoned with a griffon. Cullen cracked the seal. Flourishing script bedecked the page:

_Inquisition,_

_You can’t imagine how surprised I was to hear from you. I expect you’re after news of Queen Brynn. Unfortunately, we know little of her status. What I am personally aware of cannot be repeated in this letter. We have had little word from Ferelden or Orlais here at Weisshaupt. As you can imagine, the lack of communication hasn’t yet arisen to the level of suspicion needed for Weisshaupt to consider launching a formal investigation._

_As to your word on Warden Blackwall, her Majesty would know more about that as I was in the Circle at the time he would’ve been serving the Wardens. I can tell you that the notion of a talking darkspawn is not as strange as you imagine. What_ is _troubling is that Queen Brynn and I assumed there was only one._

_Yours,_

_Warden Archivist Felicity Amell_

_P.S. Be careful._ _Regardless of whether you believe this darkspawn really did breach the Golden City, there is probably good reason this thing was locked up in a Warden prison._ _  
_

It wasn’t as informative as Cullen hoped. “Do you know anything about the other talking darkspawn?” he asked as he offered the letter to Leliana.

Skimming the letter, the rogue said, “No, but Brynn would’ve told Alistair.”

“Are you sure you can approach him?” Cullen needled. Alistair had helped defeat the Venatori, and he’d crafted an agreement with Petrina, but the mage rebellion had scarred Redcliffe. They’d breached his trust and good will. The Inquisition, in rescuing the mages, was perceived as a threat to Ferelden.

“I _can_ approach him. Whether it would be prudent to request this information now is another matter.” Leliana set the letter on Cullen’s desk, emitting a sharp breath. Violet crescents rimmed her eyes. She, like most of them, had slept little since the red Templar assault on Haven. “Brynn’s absence has been trying for him, especially since she wasn’t known for expressing her emotions openly.”

“The information could be useful, assuming he has it,” Cullen said.

“I’ll dig around.” She turned on her heel with a faint jostle of her chainmail tunic.

“Wait,” Cullen called, “I might need something else.”

“Go ahead,” Leliana urged, halting in her tracks.

“Ser Harold Trevelyan,” Cullen said, “was stationed at the Tantervale Circle of Magi, but hasn’t yet returned home or sent word.”

“Nothing has come from the Dales yet beyond the information about the caravans. I’ll have Agent Lavellan look into this matter _quietly_.”

“Have we any idea where the red Templars were based?” Cullen prodded.

“Therinfal Redoubt,” Leliana said, “I sent my people to search the place, but there was nothing left.”

Nor would there be, given recent events with the mages. “In any case, I want to be with the Inquisitor when she goes to the Dales.”

“That might be best. Who knows what powers Samson now has through this red lyrium?” Leliana asked. Flicking a small red braid behind her ear, she chortled. “Though our Inquisitor thinks otherwise, she’s not immortal.”

_No, and luck, divine or not, must run out sooner or later._ The subtle groan of hinges signaled Leliana’s departure. Alone again, Cullen retrieved Felicity’s letter for another read. Queen Brynn held the answers and was also the only one who _could_ share that information now that her ties with the Wardens were threadbare. Wonder of wonders that she’d vanished. _It’s not connected_ , Cullen reminded himself as his thoughts drifted to Hawke. Leliana wasn’t like Varric. Had she known Brynn’s whereabouts, Leliana would’ve informed Cassandra. It didn’t matter. The Inquisition didn’t need a leader, but it was lacking information and the only group that knew a thing about the ancient magister darkspawn trying to kill them was the most secretive militaristic order in Thedas. Whoever gave the Wardens all that power to draft recruits, while also keeping them from accountability to all but their own, lacked common sense.

All anyone could do now was pray that this mess with Corypheus hadn’t shattered the Grey Wardens, or worse. Remembering the monstrous things caked in red lyrium crystals that had once been Templars, Cullen tugged at his mantle. Whatever happened in the Dales, this mess with the Wardens needed resolution. He just prayed it wasn’t as bloody as the Templar assault on Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole is difficult for me to wrap my logical mind around. Dialogue wise, he's hard to get. Addiction is something my family knows well. We also struggle with mental health issues (anxiety, bipolar, depression, oh my). Alcoholism is a vice in my family, and in my profession (law). I'm kind of too aware of the risks I'm at for it. I drew on my knowledge of it for the incoming chapters. Seriously, if you're a first-year law student, that's the first thing they drill into you: the risk of alcoholism, depression, suicide, the importance of getting help before losing your license.
> 
> Uh, that got heavy. I'm trying to give the mage/Templar thing the nuance it deserves. A lot of the fandom seems invested in "Templar bad/Templar good" and "mage bad/mage good" rather than maybe it being a little of X and Y. I obviously have a "side." I'm a woman who was involved with two faiths that hate women absolutely, both mainstream conversion faiths (and the same side of the coin, more or less). I was treated as a heretic because I didn't want to submit, in that case, to men. Obviously religion in DA is different, so the parallel doesn't completely work, but eh. That's the reason why I'm writing it the way I am. Oh, and also... politicky politics. Again, I'll always have a side, but I'm not as full of animosity toward the other side as I used to be. I can recognize some of the validity there... this fic is like therapy for me, in other words. xD
> 
> Bar exam is Tuesday and Wednesday. I'm rewatching Captain Marvel tomorrow and doing absolutely FUCK ALL. I just rewrote all my outlines of the major MBE topics on my whiteboard and I'm done. *Throws three fingers skyward* In war, victory, in peace vigilance, on the bar exam, useful forgetfulness. Or something like that.


	16. Stormy Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accompanied by Blackwall, Varric, and Sera, Petrina is marching on through the mud-soaked streets of Crestwood in search of Hawke's Warden friend, seeking answers about the mysterious magister darkspawn that sacked Haven. Rowan is stunned to learn that his sister is now a dragon slayer. Cullen grapples with lyrium and the demands of being the Inquisition's military commander.

Crestwood was awful, Petrina concluded for the umpteenth time as more rain poured from the heavens. Her leathers had kept the water from her torso, but her breeches were soaked, and there was muck squelching in her boots from the unending moisture. She gave up on that mess ever drying after the first day of walking. Her companions fared no better. Blackwall was every bit a drowned dog, hair plastered to his face and beard hanging limply from his jaw. Varric had his duster hood up, a perpetual glare hewn into his broad dwarven face. Sera kept flicking at her choppy pale hair, to no end. They were sodden and miserable. It wasn’t unlike that awful trek through the Storm Coast in search of waterlogged papers and journals left behind by the Wardens.

“Where is this stupid fort?” Varric grumbled presently. It seemed as if they’d walked for years in this mess, and Petrina didn’t fault him for his anger. The task was simple enough: drain the lake, seal the rift under the lake to stop undead from attacking the new Crestwood Village. Given that Crestwood’s original counterpart had perished in the Blight thanks to darkspawn destroying the dam controls and flooding everything, Petrina opted to help the mayor when he asked for her aid. It was the least she could do, but that was three days ago. Right now, she was in sore need of a warm meal and a bath.

“Not far,” Petrina clipped, readjusting her pack with a shudder of open revulsion. Rainwater squeaked at the motion. _And to think Rowan threw a conniption when I told him I was leaving for Crestwood and that he couldn’t follow._ Part of her wished they _had_ armor available for him, as he would’ve shriveled like a flower in late summer at all this water.

“You said that four hours ago,” Sera complained under her breath.

Up ahead, a tall dark form had sliced through the rain’s gloom. Petrina threw up a barrier as an arrow whistled over her head, lodging itself in the mud. More arrows soon followed. She sent a ball of flame toward the fort’s gigantic wooden doors. Mage fire scalded the doors black and burst a hole clean through them. Blackwall charged in first, shield raised high as the first of the bandits surged forward. The battles were quick and soon enough, blood ran against the fort’s stones alongside the rainwater. Petrina pushed forward at every chance, checking the shadows for dagger-wielding rogues. _Prowlers_ , that was the _official_ Inquisition term for them.

The leader of the bandits proved more troublesome than his cohorts. He was _massive_ in size and stature, perhaps an Avvar. That giant war hammer clasped in his hands wasn’t for show, either. He flung it around with all the ease a child did a ragdoll. Yet, Blackwall was quicker, and both Sera and Varric were skilled archers. The leader fell as any mortal did.

Petrina stepped past the corpse, grip loose on her borrowed staff. The thing was rosewood and ebbed with cold at each touch. She hoped the Inquisition could find the funds soon to get her something decent.

Past the bandit leader, the fort’s flagpole was adorned with a gaudy red flag bearing a white skull on it. She brought the flag down. Her hands shook as she reached for her pack. Harding had packed it, and while Petrina laughed at first, she understood the reason for it now. Snatching the wad of dark cloth, she mounted it on the flagpole. Winds lashed at the pennant as it surged upward, and soon enough the Inquisition’s flaming eye fanned out for all to see. Harding would send people to fill the fort.

“We should see about draining the lake,” Blackwall said.

The controls to the dam were across the fort’s bridge, which led the group toward a tavern resting over the lake. Petrina jostled the rusted door hinges until they gave. Surprised gasps hit her ears as she entered the dim area, choking back tears at the reek of mold and algae that hit her nostrils. Through the gloom, she glimpsed two figures scrambling among pale furs, alongside the faint sheen of skin. “Maker’s blood,” she swore, cupping her profile with her hand, “you couldn’t resist the thrill of a decrepit pub, I see.”

“There’s nowhere else!” a girl cried. “My father would have a fit if we stayed in the village.”

“Well, yes, you do that sort of thing _out of sight_ ,” Petrina retorted. Cloth rustled in her ears, alongside the metallic clink of buckles.

Sera pealed with laughter. Blackwall even rumbled with a faint chortle, and Varric clucked something about Isabela and Hawke. Once the movements stopped, Petrina moved further into the tavern. The two teenagers she’d caught were flushed and sporting mussed hair that they were desperately trying to smooth back into place. Quelling a disgusted groan that would’ve rivaled even Cassandra, Petrina slithered past the teens toward a door halfway devoured by black mold. Nudging into the room, she clenched her teeth at the intact drainage wheel that peered back at her. “I thought darkspawn destroyed the controls,” Varric mused at her side.

“As did I,” she said.

“ _Right_ , and I’m the queen of Antiva,” Sera quipped.

“We don’t know anything yet,” Blackwall urged.

There was enough to make an inference. Petrina pressed her weight against the wheel until its cogs shrieked and gave way. She rotated the wheel until an enormous gurgle hit her ears, followed soon by the roar of rushing water. Once all was quiet, she moved back from the wheel. The entrance to the passages under the lake had to be in Old Crestwood somewhere. Staunching her brimming temper, she surged on out of the fort. A cry pierced the heavens as the little party emerged, and several stunned heads fell back. Awe thrummed in Petrina as an enormous scaled form glided past, bedecked in purple, gold, and striped with black and white. The environment wasn’t right for a Gamordan Stormrider, but given the coloration and patterns, it had to be an electricity dragon of some type. _Northern Hunter?_ Crestwood had a lot of hills.

“Oh no,” Blackwall whispered.

A grin tugged at Petrina’s lips. Searching her companions’ faces, only Sera was downright excited by the dragon’s appearance. “ _Well_ ,” the rogue decreed, rubbing her hands together, “that’s going to make this all worth it.”

“We should’ve had Ruffles get a contract going before you were made Inquisitor,” Varric said, “and included a ‘no dragon-hunting’ clause.”

“If it’s a Northern Hunter,” Petrina continued, sobering, “it will be _hungry_.” Northern Hunters had relentless appetites.

“Great, so now we _have_ to kill it.”

“Rift first, dragon later,” Petrina assured the dwarf.

“ _More_ walking over tall hills,” Sera intoned, “yay.”

Silent agreement simmered in Petrina. Alongside the slap of moisture from the constant downpour, her legs were sore at all hours but when she slept. She’d had to leave their horses at the main Inquisition encampment, as Crestwood’s rocky slopes weren’t friendly to the mounts. Nor were areas infested with deep stalkers and demons. Horses really disliked demons. Petrina couldn’t blame them, though the ones that fell from the rifts didn’t speak and that was a small mercy.

_“A spirit wishes to join the world of the living. A demon is that wish gone wrong,”_ Solas told her back in Haven, just after she’d woken to the chaotic aftermath of the Conclave. She hadn’t the heart to challenge him then, but she’d fought many demons since then. None screamed in terror when she doused them in fire or electricity, none wept or pleaded for their lives. Killing them was familiar, a jarring contrast to flapping dark pennants embroidered with white flaming eyes. To the people that watched her with effortless devotion, loyalty. Moths to a flame. _Yes, until they learn you’re no different from the blood mages and abominations that burned their crops and murdered their kin._

Ground slid out from under Petrina, rock and earth coming loose beneath a wash of rain. She stumbled down a slope, throwing her arms up over her face. That did nothing for the muck swathing her. The shrieks and startled yelps of her companions signaled that they fared no better than her. She fell hard against sodden ground. The reek of kelp and algae filled her lungs as she stood. Dilapidated wooden buildings fanned out before her, accompanied by the faint shimmer of a wraith wafting in the darkness. “I’d say this is Old Crestwood,” she murmured as her companions joined her.

“Smell just _hits_ you, doesn’t it?” Varric coughed, pinching his nose with a gloved hand.

“It _was_ the bottom of a lake,” she reminded the dwarf.

“Let’s find this rift,” Sera urged, her face cut with anger past a coat of mud.

_And then to Hawke_. Petrina’s mark flared with verdant as she navigated the old town’s ruined streets. The glow illuminated an eerie path toward a gaping cavern hewn into one of the cliffs. Down they went, following the sickly glow of her hand. She lit some of the torch sconces that dotted the path down, disdain filling her as they delved deeper. People had lived here. The torch sconces proved that much. Maybe they’d taken shelter in these caverns. More undead awaited in the caves, alongside a sprinkling of wraiths and rage demons. The demons weren’t the problem, nor were the undead. The corpses, despite Scout Harding’s initial worries, weren’t difficult foes. What Petrina found troubling was how empty the labyrinth beneath Crestwood felt, especially given all the bones littering the ground. People who hadn’t been given pyres or burials.

Blackwall was horrified. “People were living here,” he grunted into the quiet.

“Yeah,” Varric sighed, “cold water rising, hands clawing at stone walls…”

_Lungs screaming in silence as they filled._ Petrina coughed. “Enough. We’ll deal with it when we get out of here.”

“Something wrong, Firestarter?”

Hands skimming cold, damp stone, she stepped ahead of the others. It was so long ago, but that never stopped her from fearing that awful choking sensation as her limbs flailed helplessly at endless blue. _“I bet you can’t reach that far,”_ Rowan had taunted her, a pebble flying from his hand toward the lake’s rippled surface. The pebble jaunted across the lake in three crisp arcs. She hadn’t made it as far as that pebble before the lakebed left her and she sank.

“Inquisitor?” Varric asked, lancing past her hazed consciousness.

“We have to keep moving toward the rift,” Petrina clipped back.

No one questioned her, though she bet they were trading looks and mouthing words at each other. That damned lake was dredging up other memories of Harry’s knobby hands clutched tight against rose quartz prayer beads, bow bent in fervent devotion as he knelt before Andraste’s stone stare. _“You can’t understand what it means to us,”_ he’d flung at her once in another of their many arguments. _“Andraste’s teachings give us purpose, guidance.”_ For all Petrina knew, Andraste had also told Crestwood’s mayor to drown his people during the Blight. Everything had a justification, an excuse. Too often, people wielded their beliefs like blades to justify atrocities.

_Can’t be Andraste, though. There’s no fire_ , Petrina’s thoughts sneered. She veiled her brief amusement at that remark as the cavern walls melded into staunch, angled stonework. Warm orange, threading past accents of crimson and blue stained glass, basked the passages ahead. “Dwarven ruins?” she asked, unable to keep the awe from her tone.

“Looks like an old outpost,” Varric said.

White heat nipped at Petrina’s hand, the green contrasting with the orange. Unfurling her staff, she lurched forward. Following the pain sharpening in her marked hand proved a good tactic, as it led her to a room doused in magic. A great green gash clung to the air, and it spat shades and wraiths as she neared. Blackwall bellowed something in Orlesian as he surged into action, not that she caught it over the din of magic roaring in her ears. Varric somersaulted over Petrina’s shoulder. She brought her staff down, dousing them in a barrier. Then, fire flew from her hands at the tide of shades and wraiths launching themselves at her.

The last of the shades fell with a wail to black-green shards. The rift hummed with more energy, unleashing another round of demons. Blackwall set to work disposing of the next onslaught. Sera launched several arrows at once, dissolving three shades. Ground gurgled green beneath Petrina’s feet. She fade-stepped as a terror demon materialized in her wake. Showering the thing in fire, she heaved a breath as her other hand went to her belt for a potion. Uncorking the potion, she downed it in a gulp, wincing at the sweetness that seared her throat. She had enough time to pocket the bottle before the rift snapped to life again.

“Shit,” Varric swore across the room, reloading Bianca, “how many rifts does this thing have?”

“A million,” Sera retorted, nocking three more arrows.

Energy restoring, Petrina jaunted to the shadow of a dwarven pillar as demons emerged for round three. This next round was nothing but wraiths, a mercy until they were followed with the magma-like lumps of rage demons. Four of them, plus a terror demon or two. Petrina washed the terrors in fire, draining her veins of magic. She uncorked another lyrium potion while Sera and Varric engaged in a somersaulting match to land shots on the rage demons swarming Blackwall.

“This is a little ridiculous!” Blackwall bellowed, the spikes on his shield tearing clean through the rage demon opening its maw for a gout of fire.

Pain spiraled up Petrina’s left arm. Her hand was a blur of peridot. Glowing fingers curled against her palm. The trick she’d used after Haven, down in the mines, had saved her life by destroying those despair demons, but it had also almost killed her. Teeth taut, she let her empty lyrium potion bottle drop into the remnants of the flooding at her feet and brought her staff down. Lightning fanned out in white spider-veins from the motion. The rage demons screamed as they fell.

A breath was held among the four as they lingered beneath that fat rift, waiting for more to tear past the Veil. None came. Relieved, Petrina extended her marked hand and bit back a wince at the pinprick that hit her as power surged into the anchor. The rift closed with a deafening pop as she withdrew her hand.

“Let’s hope there aren’t any more rifts like that one,” Varric said, mopping at sweat streaking his brow with a clean handkerchief.

“Can we go now?” Sera prompted. “I need a bath and some pie. Pie is always good.”

Blackwall chuckled at their antics. Petrina curled and uncurled her marked fingers. Slight tendrils of pain wound through her digits at the motion, withering with a flash of needles. No one caught the movement. Most of them were on the path toward the nearest doorway. She hurried after them, remaining quiet even as they slipped out to a cloudless sky dusted in stars. The air was hushed and somber, but in the distance Petrina glimpsed lights glowing against the fort they’d taken. _Caer Bronach_ , she corrected as they navigated toward the doors. Someone had slapped planks of wood over the hole she’d burned through the wood.

Petrina trudged into the fort. Leliana’s people had taken up residence, given the hoods and staffs about. Past the people, most of the fort’s quarters and facilities were fine. Someone had dutifully scrubbed down the washrooms, and Petrina let the others go ahead of her and claim any vacant wash basins. She resigned herself to pacing the fort’s walls, stifling yawns, wondering if Harry was dead in the Dales somewhere. When her companions had scrubbed down, she took the area Sera left empty for a brief wash and change of attire. None of them wanted to leave Caer Bronach. They had to reach Crestwood, inform the mayor that the rift was closed and the town safe from undead. Sera wanted answers from him for the flooding.

“Do those answers involve arrows?” Petrina asked as she tied off her braid.

“Maybe?” Sera asked, nose scrunching. “Do you have any better ideas, Lady-bits?”

“We capture him,” Petrina said, pausing to search her thoughts for something suitable, “and give him to King Alistair as a gesture of goodwill.”

“Assuming he comes quietly,” Varric said.

They didn’t need to worry about that, it turned out. On return to Crestwood, Petrina found the mayor absent, his home vacant. He’d left a letter for her, a confession to flooding Old Crestwood to keep the Blight from spreading ten years ago. She wasn’t surprised, though Blackwall grew despondent. Petrina sent word to Caer Bronach with a runner that the mayor had fled and was to be captured on sight.

“What a mess,” Blackwall said once the runner retreated from view.

A mess, but not an unsurprising one. Petrina was relieved they hadn’t yet encountered red Templars. She knew there would be some in the wilds, maybe. Fighting them reminded her too much of Harry. Compared to the monstrosities that sacked Haven, rivaling even the worst of her apprentice nightmares, the mayor’s crime was almost an old morality tale. That was an awful thing to think, given the lives lost in old Crestwood. She dreamed of cold water slicing at her lungs, her siblings ranting at each other, Rowan crying as lake water dribbled down her front. When morning came, she led her companions out of Crestwood to the spot Hawke had said her friend in the Wardens was hiding out in. Like most places in Crestwood, it was a cave. She was perched outside when the group approached.

“Good,” Hawke greeted, “I just got here myself. This weather and the undead were awful.”

Petrina stretched out her arms, savoring the sunlight that warmed them past her sleeves and gauntlets. “Yes,” she agreed, “we also met Wardens on our way in. They’re looking for Stroud.”

Hawke’s good mood soured. “Yes, they’ve been told he’s a traitor and ordered to capture or kill him. No surprise there. Good people always get twisted into following bad orders.”

“He’s inside, then?” Petrina nettled.

“Come on, he’s a little jumpy,” Hawke said, “as he’s been alone a while and I _did_ tell him I was coming alone.”

“I’ll just… stay out here,” Blackwall said.

Petrina spun toward the Warden. “You’re not curious about your brothers and sisters-in-arms and what’s been happening since the Blight?”

“I think watching for red Templars would be prudent, Inquisitor.”

“He’s right, Templars ordinarily dislike mages outside a Circle, but these ones are monstrosities and you’re the leader of a supposed Chantry organization,” Hawke remarked, “I doubt they’ll ask your name before killing you.”

A fair point that Petrina conceded. Sera insisted on keeping Blackwall company. It was an odd kinship those two had found, and it reminded Petrina of the way her father had used to make colorful paper lanterns for her birthday each year. Bann Trevelyan insisted that the servants could do it, but Lord Trevelyan always laughed. _Happier days, before magic, the Templars, everything else._

Trailing after Varric and Hawke, Petrina forced aside the vestiges of discomfort spawned by Crestwood’s blighted weather. Past the threshold, the cave was lit with the wan hum of firelight from the pit near the back. Water-logged maps were pinned to swollen and warped tables, all strewn with markings. Motion rustled near the rear of the cave. Hawke raised her hands high. “It’s me.”

“By the Maker,” an Orlesian accent swore, “you nearly gave me a heart attack.” Out came a stalwart man, his upper lip swathed in a hefty dark mustache, his body garbed in silverite plate and chainmail striped with blue.

“Warden Stroud, this is Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Hawke greeted, “her organization has been searching for the Wardens since this all began, and well…”

“We were attacked by an ancient magister darkspawn calling itself Corypheus and leading hordes of red Templars,” Petrina supplied. “I was told you’d have information.” _Whether it is_ relevant _information is another matter._

Warden Stroud tilted his head. “I have an idea of where my fellow Wardens have gone. Shortly before vanishing, every Warden in Orlais and Ferelden began to hear the Calling.”

“What’s that?” Varric asked.

Petrina had a vague understanding that all Wardens sought their death in the Deep Roads. She never fully understood _why_ that was necessary. “The Calling signals to a Warden that the taint in him will soon claim him,” Stroud said, blue eyes boring a hole into Petrina. “It is a sign that the Warden must seek death in the Deep Roads before the taint kills him.”

“You could’ve _mentioned_ this,” Hawke said.

“I was sworn by an oath of secrecy to the Wardens.”

“I suppose the Wardens did something in response to this Calling,” Petrina returned.

“Warden-Commander Clarel called everyone to the Western Approach for a drastic proposal involving blood magic to prevent future Blights, in the event that we all perished,” Stroud explained.

“Where?” Petrina challenged. The Approach was Blighted land far out west in Orlais. It was nothing but desert, though the Tevinter ruins in the region suggested that it had once been a thriving civilization.

Stroud gestured toward one of the maps on his table, jabbing a finger right over a vacant thatch of wilderness. “An ancient Tevinter ritual tower.”

Marking the location on her own map, Petrina tucked the paper back into its oilskin before stowing it in her bag. “I’ll go with you,” Hawke said.

Stroud slanted a frown at her. “Carver made some fuss at Weisshaupt over your presence…”

“Never could handle you having all the glory,” Varric teased, elbowing Hawke.

She didn’t return the mirth. “Tell Warden Archivist Amell she’s free to order him into any archival work she deems suitable, then.”

“Alright,” Stroud said, shoulders falling in surrender. Petrina wagered few people won arguments with Hawke.

“I’ll discuss this with the others at Skyhold, then,” Petrina replied, heading toward the cave’s entrance. She half-expected Varric to remain, but his steps joined hers. It wasn’t good news. More blood magic. _Always with the damned blood magic._ Harry was laughing somewhere, preferably far from Ferelden and Orlais. She could hear his smug singsong “I told you so.”

In an effort to put the matter from her mind, Petrina led the others off toward where the Northern Hunter had flown. She hadn’t started nesting yet, but there were plenty of other armored fools trying to fight her. Lightning flared purple-white against the sunshine basking the golden farmlands. A group of men and women in black steel charged toward the dragon in a string of shouts as she landed before them. Petrina swallowed hard as one whisk of electricity tore through the group. They fell like dominoes, even with all their fancy armor.

Beady reptilian eyes fixed on Petrina next. Unfurling her staff, she swathed the others in a barrier, barking orders to spread out among the creature’s four legs. The back legs were easier to disable. Blackwall set to work distracting the creature, bashing his shield against her muzzle when the beast drew close. Northern Hunters weren’t known for being as aggressive as fire-breathers, but this one was hungry. She’d been hoping to roost here. Arrows studded her back legs, as did flame. Everything seemed to wash past her scales, until Varric hurled a set of colorful mines at the ground. The dragon inched backwards and then her massive head fell back in a cry as the mines burst around her in frost, flame, and electricity. Crimson leached from a gash on her back thigh.

The dragon spun around, furious eyes searching as Varric retreated. Petrina fade-stepped past the creature. Sera followed suit with an aerial flip, landing on an adjacent boulder. Blackwall drew the creature to him with an incoherent yell. The beast charged, running right past Blackwall. He didn’t mind. His blade found its way past the dragon’s thick hide on its back leg. The beast shrieked and clawed at the warrior. He wasn’t quick enough in getting away, and he collided with the ground, dust welling up around him. A massive foot pressed at his back.

Sera, witnessing this, pressed her tongue against her teeth in a shrill whistle. The dragon leapt toward her, the wounds in its legs leaving specks of dark crimson on the ground. Petrina flicked her wrist, veiling Sera in a barrier. The dragon caught the motion mid-movement. It spun toward the mage, baring massive teeth. Petrina feinted right, teeth snapping in her wake. Elemental mines cracked around her, another scream hitting her ears.

Blackwall was on his feet again, blade glinting in the sunlight seeping past Crestwood’s impending cloud cover. He surged after the dragon. The Northern Hunter, worried about Varric’s mines, was searching for him. She didn’t bother watching the Warden, nor did she pay much heed until he found himself plunging his blade into the top of her head. With a groan, the Northern Hunter went limp and lifeless. _Easier than the Fereldan Frostback_ , Petrina concluded. She swiped sweat from her brow with a sleeve, emitting a laugh at the loud “whoop” Sera gave.

* * *

 

Petrina returned to Skyhold a few days later, exhausted and stiff from the long walks and hours in her horse’s saddle. Rowan was there to greet her at the stables, harried with concern. “I heard there was a dragon,” he said, “are you alright?”

“I’ve killed one before, you know,” she assured him, “I’m fine.”

Rowan blinked back at her. “You have?”

“The stories don’t mention that, I suppose.”

“You know how Chantry gossip works,” he said, tongue clicking. “I still should’ve gone with you.”

“I’m sure our smith is working on armor for you, in the event that you _want_ to risk your neck.”

“You’re doing it. I should be helping you. Besides, I’m not exactly helpless.”

No, he wasn’t helpless. His Templar training had stuck when it came to weapons and combat. He knew how to parry and dodge. _Mother won’t see it that way if he dies risking his neck for you in battle._ _Nor will you._ “Not without armor, at the least,” Petrina concluded, striding past him.

Her feet dragged her up toward the ramparts. The last time they’d spoken, Cullen had been in a decent mood. She wasn’t foolish enough to think this was the end of his struggles with lyrium, of course. _He won’t hurt me._ The fear was infantile and childish. He’d proven himself to her, but everyone was a different person under the hunger left by lyrium’s absence. In the back of her mind porcelain shattered against a pristine wall, white contrasting with robin’s egg blue, jagged clouds falling against a clear sky. _“It’s everywhere!”_ Elise had shrieked, fingers clawing at her hair.

_He won’t hurt me._ Pushing down a lump of dread, Petrina marched through the door. He was seated at his desk, though he jolted to his feet on noticing her in the doorway. “Inquisitor.”

“Don’t give me that,” she said, closing the door in her wake, “how are you doing?”

Hand smothering his mouth and nose, he turned aside. “Well enough. I had potions in Haven to help with the pain, but they were lost in the attack, and the healers here think I need to stop relying on the potions.”

“A sound decision.”

“It comes and goes,” Cullen continued, peering back at her. “You don’t need to worry about this, though.”

She planted her hands on her hips. The person she’d been in Haven would’ve laughed in cold, unflinching mockery at his pain, his indignity. Yet, she found that she couldn’t mock him, not anymore. _“I don’t think I could.”_ The sincerity in his words, his actions, those golden-brown eyes, it was impossible to ignore. A part of her was frightened by it all, but that didn’t the change the truth branded into her bones now.

“Shocking as it might come to you, I do care about your wellbeing,” she said.

“Things must be really bad if you’re admitting that,” he replied, the scarred corner of his mouth inching upward just a fraction.

“I know what a lack of lyrium can do to a person.”

_“Just get out of here, Petra,”_ Elise urged that afternoon, shoulders hunching as she sank into a blue-cushioned divan. Wan afternoon light had slashed across the room, striping the women in shadows, highlighting the dark crescents rimming those standard Trevelyan silvers, the despair written into the plunge of her chapped lips.

_“This could kill you,”_ Petrina had returned.

_“And since when do you care?”_

Those words cut deeper from this distance. Petrina thumbed at her nose. “I saw it in my sister. She’s doing better now, but… it was difficult then.”

“Difficult?” Cullen echoed. “I wonder _why_.”

“She threw a vase at me, some priceless Orlesian thing,” Petrina went on, nails scraping at her gauntlet.

“Doesn’t sound like your family motto.”

“Every highborn family hides their flaws.” She forced her gaze from the floor back toward his irises. Daylight radiated through the diamondback windowpanes behind him, dappling his desk in shade. “Once the Circle fell, though, all the anger I’d built up there just _poured_ out, and Elise was the only Templar of our family to return. She was an easier target than Harry and his damned self-righteousness. I’m not proud of it.”

Cullen looked at her then, and she loathed how vulnerable she felt beneath his stare. He was seeing her, she knew, not as the surly mage thrown into a struggle she never wanted, but as a human. It stung, in a way. Revealing things like this wasn’t something she’d have done in the Circle, not to a mundane, and definitely not a _former_ Templar. That was a death sentence. “I suppose she’s still alive,” Cullen went on.

“Yes, and doing better,” Petrina added, “it passes, though it takes time.”

“I hope so.”

Snatching a loose thread on her gauntlet, she tugged it free. “What do you want?” The scarlet between her feet, a rug that would’ve been pretty in another life, seemed to glare back as a sea of blood. “Do you want to take lyrium?”

“No,” he relented, quiet. “I want to break my chain.”

His chain to the Chantry, he meant. “Then keep going."

He dug a hand in his curls. “And if I can’t endure?”

She spoke what she knew from fighting alongside him, from the determination he exuded even when faced with demons and blood mages. “You can,” she replied.

Color pooled in his cheeks. Hands falling to his side, he shifted his weight. “I… um… did you need something?”

It was then that she noticed how close she’d stepped to him, the warmth ebbing from his proximity. She glided back to a respectable distance. “I’m going to call a war room meeting about Crestwood. We’ll need scouts in the Approach. Warden Stroud has said they are gathering there, the other Wardens.”

“The Approach? Are you sure? There’s nothing but desert out there, Blighted land…”

“ _Stroud_ is sure,” Petrina corrected. She rapped a finger to her lips. _And Blackwall knew none of this, conveniently._ “I’d also like a formal investigation into Warden Blackwall. Any contacts we have with Weisshaupt, use them.”

“You sound suspicious.”

“He behaved oddly when we found Warden Stroud.”

“Leliana is already investigating, on similar grounds, I believe.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Cullen said.

“Petrina,” she urged, scuffing her dark boots at his rug. The mud-caked soles seemed a poor match for the finery Josephine had bedecked his office in.

“Alright, Petrina,” he mumbled, cheeks pink as he returned his attention to the papers coating his desk.

She jaunted from his office. She’d never seen him uncertain and flushed like that before, not around her. He was always ready to challenge her on anything. Something was shifting, and she couldn’t place it. That frightened her almost more than the prospect of the Circles returning. _I need a bath and a drink._

Entering Skyhold, she glimpsed Blackwall migrating toward Josephine’s office. Discomfort swelled in Petrina. It wasn’t going to last, but suspicion gnawed on her after that encounter in Crestwood. _I tried to reason with the mages outside Redcliffe. I spoke to them. Why didn’t he want to speak with Stroud?_ Attention moving from them, Petrina headed upstairs to the rooms designated her quarters. Rooms she hadn’t earned, isolated from the rest of the keep, above the grounds, above the chaotic day-to-day of Skyhold. On her way up, she caught the murmur of speech trailing from the rooms granted her brother Rowan. She noted the Tevinter accent. “I swear,” Rowan was saying as Petrina moved past, “it’s the _truth_!”

“Yes, but stringing the poor lad’s undergarments up on a flagpole? A tad extreme, even for our frigid Inquisitor.”

_Frigid?_ Petrina bit her tongue. “She’s not frigid,” Rowan said, his jovial tone growing somber, “she distrusts people, and for good reason. Many of them are awful. Those she placed her trust in betrayed her, murdered someone she cared for, cherished.”

“Ah. The Southern _Circle_ ,” Dorian sneered, “I’ll never understand how mages tolerated it.”

“They had no choice.”

_“Why do you tolerate this indignity? You Aequitarians would sell us all into slavery because it suits your personal fancy,”_ Petrina once backlashed at Ollie, basked in afternoon’s serene light inching through his bedchamber windows. She hadn’t been in her right state of mind. It didn’t matter, like most things in the Circle.

_“We don’t want chains, Petra. We want caution, and once you wanted the same.”_

_“Before my lover decided our people were best served by the Circles,”_ she’d retorted, hot-headed and brimming with all the answers.

_“I never said that…”_

_“You didn’t have to!”_

_“Well, if you know precisely what I’m thinking, then you don’t need me to tell you. Run back to your precious Libertarians. Don’t complain to me when they bring Thedas to ruin with their reckless disregard for law and order.”_

Massaging her forehead, Petrina stalked to her quarters. She hurled her pack and the frost staff at the base of the stairs. Shaking hands undid her armor, her boots, her clothing. Desperate to feel something, she cast another round of warmth into the bath she drew. Once steam swelled against the water, she stepped into the tub. _What are you doing?_ She tipped her head back, surveying the ornate stonework arching against her ceiling. Discomfort settled in her. A part of her longed for the hard indifference she’d carried in the Circle, after the fall. It was easier to ignore the questions in Cullen’s eyes, the guidance he sought from her, the gentleness he exuded even in anger. He’d frightened her for a time, yet now she understood that it was more than his status as Knight-Commander Meredith’s right-hand. The grief he carried with him, the resentment, the fear, the longing for change, for a personal rewrite, it was hers. Templar and mage. Each scarred by the Circle. Each clinging to roles that didn’t exist anymore, that ideally wouldn’t exist once this was done and Corypheus was dead at her feet.

_Are you so afraid?_ Petrina winced against hot waters, pressed her cheek to her knees. Yes, she was terrified, but not of him. _“No. I don’t think I could.”_ The sincerity that clung to his voice then reverberated through her even now. He always reserved that serene kindness for her. Against the lingering echoes of lyrium on his scent, it was the kindness that struck her.

More than anything else, his kindness frightened her. He always had a gentle gleam in his amber eyes, a hint of a smile on his face. She remembered too well the mantra he'd repeated to her whenever they argued: _“You have nothing to fear from me.”_ And when he smiled at her, face basked in golden afternoon sunlight, she wanted to believe it was true. But, if her past in the Circle had taught her anything, it was that Templars weren't to be trusted, especially the ones with lilting voices and soft smiles.

_He's not a Templar._

The desperation in his expression as he searched her features for an answer to the hunger devouring his veins revealed that much. He, like many sold to the Order through youthful idealism or familial prestige, had been used as a watchdog in the Circle while Chantry clerics blissfully ignored the problems with the Circle. Once his time was up, he’d been cast out. _Like Elise._ And all those faithful, unwilling to see the issues with the way things were, clung to a version of the past that never was, demanding Templar protection in exchange for nothing. Protection from blood magic, demons, abominations, bandits.

_A cycle of abuse. The Chantry leashed Templars with lyrium, who then leashed mages._ No, Cullen wasn’t a Templar any longer, and nor was she a Libertarian. Rising from the tub, she stepped from the waters and dried herself with a twist of her hand before donning a change of attire. _The Wardens_ , she reminded herself as she ran a comb through her loose tresses, _I must stop whatever madness they’re trying in the Approach._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I at least sat for my state's bar exam, two days, 6 hours each with 3 hours in the morning and 3 in the afternoon. The girl next to me never showed up. You pay a lot of money to take the bar exam and study for it. Might as well throw your hat in the ring. I won't know until October if I passed. /Shrugs. It is a good profession, despite all the shark jokes and whatnot. I've met some of the funniest, nicest people in law school. And given how much cash we take out for these degrees, the focus on money is kind of warranted at least for the first few years of practice. I just want to help people. That's why I came, and maybe to make some money too. xD A stable income would be nice.
> 
> Uh... anyway! I think this chapter was where I realized just why I did TWO full first drafts of this story before settling on this version. The other versions were way too fast, not enough time spent in my mage's head. I see a lot of "Cullen has PTSD" fics, and yes, he does, probably. But, I mean, so would a former Circle mage. I also really like writing battles... for some reason. I blame Tamora Pierce. She got me on this train of "write female bad-asses." Brynn will be coming in, later because, come on, Bioware, you cowards, I want my surly little queen back. I'm not the only one who wants her Warden back, but honestly... this is why we write fic, so I won't be too upset if she never shows up. I would like to play a voiced Orlesian character in the next game. It would be the best, even if it probably won't happen.
> 
> Thanks for the comments! :3


	17. Of Headaches and Other Unfortunate Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with more fallout from his lingering lyrium withdrawal, Cullen tries to find ways to distract himself. Rowan is a pain in the commander's ass, as is Dorian. Leliana has unfortunate news about the devoted Templar from House Trevelyan. Petrina stops a livid former Seeker from throttling Varric into a lifeless corpse, and Cullen faces a sudden and jarring truth regarding the Inquisitor.

_Felicity pealed with ribald laughter as rain continued to pound at the world beyond the Circle tower. Cullen kept his focus trained on the wall past her head. She wasn’t with Jowan today, that odd thin dark-haired mage no one trusted. Rumor went he was going to be made Tranquil, anyway. No, Felicity was joined by a solemn brunette elven girl. Sometimes, if Cullen looked hard enough, he caught the pair trading doting looks and tentative, optimistic smiles. It was stupid, he knew, as he realized in those moments that he’d never seen Felicity look at a boy the way she did this girl. Yet, a part of him clung to a distant hope that perhaps things could be different._

_Things would never be different. It was all fantasy, a distant exercise. She was a mage and he was a Templar. She was his charge. Long shadows divided the library into dark and light sections that afternoon, making dark oak seem black and morphing books into vertical slabs of stone. Like the bricks that comprised the tower’s walls. “He didn’t say which one,” the elf whispered, cutting past Cullen’s monotony._

_“Of course he didn’t. He’s weird, you know,” Felicity went on._

_“Keep your voice down.”_

_“Why?”_

_The elf slid a suspicious glare in Cullen’s direction, right as he feigned interest in a crack wending through the ceiling over his head. “You know why.”_

_Felicity clapped one of her books shut, leaning against the leather-bound cover. “His only hope if he flees again is recruitment into the Wardens.”_

_“I know.”_

_Even without the name, Cullen knew they were talking about that blonde kid from the Anderfels, the one that never spoke. Everyone just called him Anders. He was deemed a harmless rascal by the First Enchanter. That was the sole reason Anders hadn’t been shuttled off to Aeonar. “I’m just saying,” Felicity continued, “if we knew which one, we could report it and…”_

_“And they’d do nothing,” the elf interrupted, “believe me, I’ve tried.”_

_Both girls halted as noise pulsed around them. Magic sheared the air. Cullen lurched forward. His hand twisted against his sword hilt. The blade didn’t yield to his pull, though. A wicked laugh filled his ears as a massive shadow doused the library. Several beady eyes bore down on him from within a malevolent, inhuman face studded in a jagged hide. Tugging uselessly at his blade, he resigned himself to fleeing right as warmth simmered over his shoulder. Flame engulfed the monstrosity. Yet, when he turned toward the source of the blast, all he glimpsed was the bright glimmer of morning sunshine._

Cullen woke to agony slashing at his head. Forearms pressing at the ache, he laid in his sheets a minute, digesting his memory. It wasn’t accurate. The day he learned Felicity Amell fancied women had been a week before her Harrowing, not the night Uldred drowned the tower in blood magic. As the headache dissipated, he slipped from his bed to dress and greet the fresh mountain of papers on his desk. Atop the batch was a simple torn scrap of paper that read: _Come to the rookery. It’s urgent. — L._ Cullen sighed as he fed the paper to his fireplace and stalked off toward the rotunda.

Leliana was sipping tea when he arrived, eerily calm despite the persistent clack of ravens around her. She stood from the table that served as her desk, cup clinking against the saucer she placed it against. “Good,” she said, “you’re here. I wanted to speak with you in person. You asked me for information on Ser Harold Trevelyan.”

“I did.”

“Agent Lavellan thinks she spotted him in the Dales.”

Cullen’s heart sank. “Still recognizable, so it’s something.”

“He’s one of the overseers for the lyrium smuggling operation,” Leliana continued.

“I suppose the Inquisitor knows nothing about this.”

“No.”

Blue was streaking the heavens beyond the rotunda’s windows. Cullen recalled the distaste in Petrina’s voice when she uttered her brother’s name, how she trembled when she asked Cullen for help. Unlike him, she’d lost much of her family to the Chantry, either from being forced into confinement because of her magic or due to religious duty. “We have to bring him back alive,” he said.

“Which is what I told Agent Lavellan, but she agreed with me that it might not be possible. You saw the red Templars that sacked Haven. If he’s anything like them, he may already be past saving.”

Fear settled in Cullen. He’d been lucky enough to avoid Petrina’s wrath thus far, at least its full brunt. She’d forgiven much in him, but he doubted she’d be as willing to relinquish her brother’s life. Rivals they might have been in Ostwick, but they were still kin. Family mattered regardless of heated arguments. “That’s not good enough.”

Leliana’s response was drowned out by the scuttle of footsteps on the staircase. They both went quiet, bracing for the newcomer. Cullen expected an agent. Instead, he was greeted with a pair of defiant and somber silver irises. These belonged to a young man swathed head to toe in black velvet. _Rowan Trevelyan._ “Alright,” he said, stroking at his chin, “when was anyone going to tell me my sister had taken to regularly killing dragons?”

“Respectfully, Lord Trevelyan, your sister’s expertise on dragons make her the best-suited of us to deal with them,” Leliana said. Her hand nudged Cullen’s forearm. He quelled an eye-roll by scuffing his boots against the stone floor.

“Be that as it may,” Rowan mused, his crisp Ostwick accent tinted with a bit of Orlesian, “she shouldn’t have to go alone. I’m her brother. I want to travel with her.”

“That’s assuming we can find the supplies for armor,” Cullen chimed in next. They needed every bit of metal and leather trade brought in. New recruits needed the armor more than Petrina’s overprotective brother. Of course, none of this was in Rowan’s mind.

“Dagna can probably make something,” Leliana supposed. “Although it will take time, and will require your measurements, of course.”

Frustration blistered across Rowan’s neutral expression. To Cullen’s surprise, Rowan didn’t throw a tantrum the way some Orlesians did on leaving Josephine’s office with unfavorable results. Rather, Rowan offered a polite nod. “I thank you, then, and for keeping her alive,” he added as an afterthought, his mouth firming into a line.

The look Rowan threw Cullen was brimming with accusations. Not all of them were unfounded, either. In a past life, Cullen knew he’d have killed or had Petrina branded. Many times, he’d wondered about her intentions toward the Inquisition, the Chantry, but that was back in Haven. Before he saw her drench her fellow mages in fire with tears glimmering in her eyes, unshed. Before she healed him from almost certain death without pause. Before he glimpsed her ghosts through the cracks in those walls she’d carefully constructed around herself. Certainty burned him as he spoke his next words, “We owe her much. Your sister is a remarkable woman.”

“That she is,” Rowan agreed, tilting his head toward Leliana’s miniature shrine to Andraste along the far wall, “not that Mother or your precious Chantry ever thought as much.”

Leliana inclined toward the stairs. “Lord Trevelyan, I have something that I could use your help with, actually.” She tossed a glance to Cullen. He took that as his invitation to depart for the main hall. Descending, he paused as he drank in the color adorning the walls of the rotunda’s first floor. Solas was perched up on a rickety set of wooden scaffolding, palette in hand, a paintbrush posed between thin fingers. _An artist. Who’d have thought?_ The shapes he’d sketched out thus far in thin paint were of griffons and a laurel crown. Cullen had seen that symbol everywhere after the Blight, even in Kirkwall. The crest of House Cousland.

“Commander,” Solas greeted, attention unmoving from his work.

“You’re talented,” Cullen said.

“I practiced every day for years,” Solas replied, “that’s hardly the same as effortlessly dancing one’s way through a spell, wouldn’t you say?”

That remark startled Cullen. “It sounds like you and the Inquisitor are having a disagreement.”

“She’s steeped in paranoid and regressive beliefs thanks to her time in the Circle,” Solas said, dipping his brush into the paint on his palette before smudging more green on the laurel crown. “She can be open-minded about much, but many times she frustrates me.”

_She’s not like you_ , Cullen recited. It wasn’t just the training, he knew. Petrina had felt the dangers of blood magic and demons. Solas had never experienced the fall of a Circle. He wasn’t fond of Tevinter, for obvious reasons pertaining to his being an elf and his dossier stated that he’d never been there. As such, he hadn’t truly witnessed the Tevinter system, bedecked in blood magic and slavery. “This is between you two,” Cullen said as he rounded on his heel.

The main hall was bustling with people when he escaped the rotunda. Petrina was at the fore of it all, jabbing a forkful of sausage at Dorian while he beamed back at her. Cassandra gaped at the mages, aghast. Josephine’s ears were red. As Cullen neared them to take the vacant chair at Josephine’s side, he noticed the stark violet crescents beneath Petrina’s eyes. “I’m serious,” Petrina was saying to Dorian, “Orlesians aren’t that bad, outside of Orlais.”

“I hope the masks come off in bed,” Dorian taunted, “although that _does_ make them more tantalizing.”

Cold comprehension splashed Cullen. He began piling his plate with food as the mages chatted. No wonder Josephine was focused on the papers in her lap. “They don’t wear the masks in the Marches,” Petrina said.

Cullen cut in then, prompting Josephine, “I suppose you brought this on.”

“Don’t blame me, _Commander_ ,” she retorted, hazel eyes narrowing. “I just mentioned that Orlais is going to host a ball for the end of the civil war, and somehow…”

“ _We_ began talking about what really matters,” Dorian interrupted as he reached for the decanter to refill his goblet.

Petrina snatched the decanter from his grasp. “ _You_ brought this up.” Red wine sloshed like blood against her silver goblet as it fell from the decanter’s mouth.

“My dear, _no one_ here has your experience with Orlesians.”

“Of that sort, no,” Josephine concurred.

Cullen forced a laugh. The prospect of Petrina swarmed with Orlesian chevaliers made him uncomfortable. Not for some pathetic notion of honor or ownership, but out of something he couldn’t name. _Concern?_ His drug had been pain-relief potions, an easy way of quenching the gaping wound lyrium left in his veins. Looking at her now, remembering how she’d stumbled weeping into the snows at Haven that night he found her in the tavern, he supposed she took her solace in excesses the rich could freely access. Sex and wine. He couldn’t blame her. Across the table, she was watching him. Wine glistened against her red lips, deepening their hue. Gentle early light had eased her face’s harsh contours a tad. His heart’s beat was a stampede in his ears.

To distract himself, he began picking at the incomprehensible mess of sausage, egg, and bread on his plate. His face was an inferno as he ate. No one laughed, a mercy. They hadn’t noticed. _She did. She saw you staring._ _She’s the Inquisitor. The Herald. A former Circle mage._

“ _Commander_ ,” Dorian chimed, singsong, “are you _blushing_?”

“Leave him be,” Petrina said.

Downing a bite of food, Cullen’s curiosity dragged his attention toward her again. “We’ll need outfits and masks,” Josephine was saying, “that means we’ll need measurements. Can I trust your brother to attend?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“Oh, now _that_ would be intriguing,” Dorian said, his confident façade cracking a tad, “the stalwart Lord Trevelyan all in black, save for silver gilt masking his eyes…”

“Again, you’d have to ask him,” Petrina stipulated.

Josephine retrieved the pen behind her ear to dip it in the ink next to her goblet. She scrawled something onto the papers in her lap. “Very well.”

Petrina excused herself, pausing on her way past Cullen to murmur, “War room when you can.” Remembering her words about the Approach, he graced her with a nod before finishing his food. Josephine migrated toward the war room with her head still in her papers. She paused once in her path to trade prim compliments with Vivienne. Petrina glided past them in a haze of peacock velvet, and Cullen ripped his focus from her swaying hips with a lash of regret. _She’s the Inquisitor._

Things worsened once he fled the table for the war room. Alone in the war room’s quietude, he found his thoughts wandering back to wine-soaked lips and those piercing silver irises. He pushed out a breath as the war room door opened. Leliana sauntered in. “I may have found a purpose for the surly Lord Rowan Trevelyan.”

“I suppose our Inquisitor will decide that.”

Josephine was the next to arrive, scratching furiously at her tablet. “Lady Forsythia is incorrigible sometimes,” she groused.

“ _More_ threats of beheading us all?” Leliana supposed.

Cullen gaped at the women. “Pardon?”

“It’s nothing,” Josephine sighed.

“Perhaps I should post more guards outside your room,” he suggested.

“The Inquisitor suggested the same thing,” Josephine intoned, “it’s not necessary. Lady Forsythia simply likes using _colorful_ language.”

“She _is_ at war with her brother, with whom we’re trying to ally,” Leliana said with a mournful affectation, “that’s to be expected.”

_The nobility are strange_ , Cullen concluded. Petrina strode in last, flipping through a fat bundle of papers in her arm. “The Approach,” she said, planting the bundle on the nearest vacant chair to survey the advisors’ faces. “What do we know about it?”

“I’m going to send a forward scouting party,” Leliana proposed, “to map the area and evaluate any risks.”

Practical to the last. The land was Blighted, which meant it was a breeding center for darkspawn. “Sounds logical,” Petrina said.

“Your brother expressed a wish to accompany you in your journeys. As he is quite the rogue based on his Templar records, I was thinking he could join my most senior scouts,” Leliana went on.

Cullen braced for an outburst. Instead, Petrina sucked at her teeth. “Fine,” she relented as if she’d been asked to consent to torture. “They’ll all be instructed on how to fight darkspawn, I trust.”

“Naturally, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, “I didn’t survive my journeys with King Alistair and Queen Brynn for nothing.”

“In the meantime,” Josephine piped up with a flourishing sweep of her pen on her tablet, “I am going to commission some seamstresses in Val Royeaux to prepare our outfits for the ball.”

_Of course you are_ , Cullen thought. “Let me know,” Petrina deadpanned.

“I heard you were a skilled dancer in Ostwick.”

“Yes,” Leliana agreed, mirth gleaming in her sapphire irises, “the _dancing mage of Ostwick_.”

Pink welled in Petrina’s cheeks. Cullen bit the inside of his cheek to quell a chortle. It was unusual, seeing her abashed. “Try not to spread that around,” she managed, “it’s not exactly the image a fearsome, dragon-slaying Inquisitor wants to project.”

Conversation shifted on that note toward dourer topics. Red lyrium operations in the Dales. Cullen remained mute as Leliana relayed the information, leaving out Ser Harold’s whereabouts. Pain lodged itself behind his eyes as she spoke. He emitted a low, shuddering breath. In his periphery, he caught Petrina watching him, blatant and pensive. Schooling his expression, he tried to focus on something other than the daggers stabbing his skull. Someone had to tell her before they journeyed to the Dales. Before she left for the Approach. His tongue wouldn’t form the words. Fears as familiar as his name welled in the back of his head, melding with the headache. He’d seen her wash people in fire. She could do the same to him if he told her.

_And yet, wouldn’t you wish to know the truth if it was Mia?_ Massaging his forehead, he waited as the meeting adjourned. Leliana and Josephine left together, talking color coordination and the Orlesian ball. Petrina stayed behind, watching him. “Are you well?”

“I’ll manage,” he said.

“You seemed like you had something on your mind.”

_Naturally._ Cursing his indiscretion, he rubbed at the back of his neck. “You asked after your brother.”

“You have news?”

“Agent Lavellan spotted him in the Dales, overseeing a red lyrium operation.”

Petrina sagged against the war table. “Of course. Do you know if he… if he is still…”

“He’s still human and alive,” Cullen intervened.

“For now, assuming the red lyrium hasn’t taken his mind yet.”

“We’ll find him, In— _Petrina_.”

Head dipping, she nodded. “One way or the other.”

“The agents are under orders to bring him in alive.”

“If such a thing is possible.” Jet hair slid over her shoulders as she leaned over the table, fists curling against the tree trunk’s mottled surface. “He was always an idiot.”

“He’s not dead yet,” Cullen reminded her. Something about her certainty unsettled him.

“ _Yet_ ,” she repeated, pinning him with a pallid stare.

“You can’t write him off,” Cullen said, moving around the war table.

“You don’t know him.”

That was true. Cullen had never met Ser Harold Trevelyan. There were countless noble young men and women sold to the order as babes. Half of them would’ve been brunettes. A young man from Ostwick wouldn’t have been sent to Ferelden, not even to train. “Tell me about him.”

“He was always stubborn, always certain that his cause was one of righteousness. As a boy, he spent hours praying in the Chantry.” She eased back from the table, stretching her arms. “Someone bought him these rose quartz prayer beads and after that, he took them everywhere he went. He snuck them into Templar training. You’d be proud, I imagine, he was a model student. Top of his class, had the best marks, the highest honors. They sent him to Tantervale.”

“You didn’t get along.”

“He was never like Elise,” she said, brows plunging as anger and regret mixed in her expression. “He devoted himself _wholly_ to the Order. Whatever he saw in the Circle, it changed him enough to challenge me at every step.”

_Yes, I wonder who that sounds like._ Petrina tugged at her signet ring. “He was the weakest of us when he was born. For a time, they weren’t sure if he was going to be sent to the Order. He didn’t spend time playing with us, not often. Mother was always terrified he’d have one of his fits and swallow his tongue.”

“Fits?” Cullen asked. It was nosy, but he couldn’t staunch his curiosity.

Fingers pausing over her ring, she nodded. “Seizures, violent ones. We were sure that meant he wouldn’t be going to the Order, much less a Circle. He was so happy when he was sent off for training. Cat told me he grinned the whole way out the door.”

That didn’t fit the image Cullen had gathered during his tenure in Ferelden. The highborn sold to the Order as infants were anything but thrilled. Those with memories of a life lived in luxury and without want were livid at their newfound confinement and minimalism. “You never speak much about the others,” he continued, wondering if Petrina was as standoffish with her family as she’d been with him.

“Elise taught me to braid my hair. When she visited me in the Circle, she brought me sweets or trinkets from the market. Cat always ensured I had clothing to wear when I visited home for balls or other occasions. How she knew my measurements, I’ll never know. Gregory… things were hard for him. As the eldest, he was held to an impossible standard, not that he ever let us help him. He was always enamored with stories, fairy tales, poetry, romance, and that desire to sit and read stories rather than live them does not mesh well with being a bann of House Trevelyan.” Sunshine wafted over them, bathing the war room in fractional warmth as it crawled past diamondback windowpanes. She grinned at her ring, distance burrowing in her features. “He always had the best tales, though. He had a way of speaking them in a mysterious, eloquent way that the rest of us lacked.”

_That_ caught his notice. “Had?”

“He fled the family estate.”

He knew better than ask for more. It wasn’t fair, given that he’d yet to tell her about the family he’d let languish in South Reach. Mia’s latest letter remained unanswered. He had no clue what to tell her. She’d want answers for Ferelden and Kirkwall, for his years of silence. More than that, he was frightened of her judgment. She knew what she stood for, while he’d preferred following others along a path of Chantry-prescribed righteousness. Compared to Petrina, whose values were clear and defined, he was mired in confusion. It shamed him, in a way. All he’d cherished and valued had been destroyed that night at the Gallows, in the turquoise glare of a determined apostate outnumbered and outmatched by men and women twice her size, each armed to the teeth. _“Kill them.”_

Retreating to his office, Cullen pressed the heel of his hand to his blistering headache. Down on the grounds, he glimpsed the robed forms of mages. Several apprentices were locked in a snowball fight, laughter high and carefree as it trailed up to the ramparts. Children, most no older than twelve at the most. _She was eight when they took her._

“Curly!”

Cullen suppressed a string of curses as Varric materialized in the doorway. Focus wresting from the window, Cullen greeted the dwarf with a curt, “That’s not my name.”

“Bah, you and Firestarter are both too serious,” Varric chirped, sauntering into the room with his hands locked behind him. An impish grin wound across the dwarf’s broad face. That grin belied something darker, Cullen knew. He pinched the bridge of his nose against another flare of pain ricocheting through his skull. Against the headache, he realized the cause of Varric’s sudden appearance. There was _one_ reason for the dwarf to have renewed his status as a mischievous pest, and that reason lay within the rampant footfalls of steel boots against stone.

Cullen’s office door thundered open as Cassandra tore into view. “ _You_!” she cried to Varric. The dwarf blanched and spun on his heel, jaunting out the other door on quick, small feet. Cassandra raced after him.

_Maker’s breath._ Someone had to stop them. _Andraste guide us all._ Reluctant, Cullen headed out from his desk toward the pair with as light of a stride as he could manage. They were headed toward the blacksmith’s forge, though the smith was absent. Noises emanated from the small loft above the main forge. The reek of molten metal and charcoal filled the air. “Enough!” an Ostwick accent cried with a ferocity Cullen hadn’t thought her capable of, not when it came to mundane arguments at any rate.

“You’re taking _his_ side!?” Cassandra spat.

Cullen hurried toward a shadowed alcove, heart thundering at his ribs. This was childish. Yet, he couldn’t help himself. He’d rarely witnessed her interactions with the others, apart from Solas or Dorian. “I’m taking _my_ side,” Petrina returned.

“He’s a liar, Inquisitor, a snake.”

“Those are some _steep_ accusations considering all the Chantry has pulled.”

“We searched for Hawke after Kirkwall! We needed someone to lead this Inquisition. She could’ve talked to the mages, stopped the war before it began.”

Varric retorted this time: “The Inquisition _has_ a leader!”

“We searched for Queen Brynn Cousland first, but she was gone. When we searched for Hawke, she was gone too. We thought it all connected, but _you_ were the one who kept her from us!” Cassandra snarled. Metal and cloth jostled.

“ _Enough_ ,” Petrina urged, “Varric is not responsible for the Conclave.”

“I was trying to protect her,” Varric returned, somberness etching into his words, “Maker knows you people have done enough to her.”

“Perhaps she should’ve considered that before tearing Kirkwall apart,” Cassandra ground out.

“By the blood of Andraste, the war was coming with or without Kirkwall,” Petrina retorted, “Kirkwall was just the last straw in a _long_ line of abuses. Hawke didn’t start the war.”

“Ha!” Varric taunted.

“And Hawke is with us now,” Petrina went on, “that’s all that matters.”

“Just go, Varric,” Cassandra urged, despondent exasperation wearing on her words.

Floorboards groaned overhead. Cullen shrank further into the darkness. “If Hawke had been at the Conclave, she’d be dead too,” Varric murmured on his way down. He marched right past the former Templar and out of the building.

“Damn him,” Cassandra swore. “I feel so foolish.”

“We’re all fools,” Petrina replied, “or haven’t you been paying attention?”

A weak laugh trailed from the late Divine’s Right Hand. “Is that your way of making me feel better?”

“More at home, maybe.”

“Frustrating though you are, I have no regrets.”

“Oh, you don’t mean _that_ ,” Petrina said, though the tease was faint against her grim intonation.

“You frustrate me, but I’m glad I didn’t end up breaking your nose that night after Haven.”

“As am I. Mother might have actually shown up if word broke of _that_. She’s a titan in all but stature, that woman.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Maybe if we’d found the queen or Hawke, the Maker wouldn’t have had to send you.”

“I’d be dead or worse at the hand of some rogue Templars, no doubt, if I hadn’t wound up here.”

“I still say it was providence.”

“Naturally, but you’re wrong.”

Cullen slipped out of the building as Cassandra released a signature, disgusted grunt. Varric was nowhere to be seen, but across the way Cullen glimpsed Rowan and Dorian trading a book alongside boyish laughter. The mage stowed the book as Cullen neared. “What are you two up to?” he asked, certain he didn’t want to know.

“Reading,” Rowan said, “very dry histories about the Grey Wardens.”

“Precisely,” Dorian answered.

“You could simply ask Leliana for such information,” Cullen reminded them, “she survived the Fifth Blight…”

“Not of _this_ nature,” Rowan insisted. He shifted his weight, and that caused the book to tumble from its hiding spot behind him to the gap between the castle wall and his seat. Cullen glimpsed a pale blue cover featuring a man and a woman. Rowan went rigid. “Shit.”

“It’s a romance novel,” Dorian said, retrieving the book without pause, “quite awful. One of Varric’s, if I’m not mistaken.”

Sweeping filigreed cursive adorned the cover: _Swords and Shields_. “Want a taste, Commander?” Rowan asked, leaning back in his seat with an idle twirl of his wrists. A coy smirk pulled at his marzipan face. “Don’t take these words as advice though, as my sister likes to take _charge_.”

Heat swelled in Cullen’s cheeks. Over his shoulder, a door slammed shut. Gentle laughter hit his ears, crisp as a bird’s call. When he turned toward the sound, it was to her smile, tucked behind a curtain of lithe fingers. For a moment, those silver eyes of hers gleamed like moonstone rather than steel. _She’s the Inquisitor_ , he insisted as he tore off toward his office. Dorian and Rowan’s heckles faded from earshot as Cullen climbed back up to the ramparts. The image of her, cast beneath white alpine sun, resonated in his thoughts as he resumed his work.

That night, he dreamed of something other than Ferelden and Kirkwall. He dreamed of crimson lips against his own, color dusting pale cheeks, and that Ostwick voice crooning his name. When he woke, it was to embarrassment and another reminder blaring in his ears that she was the Inquisitor. Yet, he had no headache. Better still, when he made his way out to run drills with his soldiers, it was to the departure of Leliana’s scouting party. Among them, somewhere, was Rowan. Cullen was relieved that the elder Trevelyan twin was gone. He didn’t know the fellow enough to judge, but it was plain that Rowan disliked the former Knight-Captain. That wouldn’t have been an issue, except Rowan didn’t reveal his distaste in blatant outbursts the way his sister did. No, Rowan veiled his intent behind polite remarks and sidelong glares. Given how quietly he could move, an assassination in the dead of night wouldn’t have been too uncanny an occurrence.

Leliana paid Cullen’s change in mood no mind that afternoon in the war room when they began parsing out what few messages had arrived from the Approach. Josephine didn’t join them, as she was busy interviewing seamstresses and placing orders for fittings. Petrina paced near the war room door as Leliana read out her agents’ writings. The only thing that perked the mage up was the mention of a high dragon in one of Harding’s reports. “What sort is it?” Petrina prompted.

“Large and dark, with bits of turquoise on its back,” Leliana said, “according to a _delirious_ scout.”

“Abyssal,” Petrina replied, “a fire-breather.”

“More Venatori,” Cullen noted, jabbing his thumb at the report in question. His hopes of changing the subject shattered with her next words.

“The Abyssal could be the Venatori went out there for,” she said, “though Maker only knows why.”

“We don’t have a staff for you to fight a high dragon with,” he reminded her.

She drummed her fingers against each other. “We’ll deal with it if we must, then. Our sole focus has to be the Wardens anyway.”

“Yes, and although I wrote my contact at Weisshaupt, she has nothing recent on our Warden Blackwall,” Leliana said.

A shadow slipped into the room as clouds caked the sunlight beyond its walls. They’d found the Warden treaties, or an official copy of them. Blackwall wanted to seek out abandoned Warden camps, find things his people had left behind. Petrina obliged him. The purported treaties had been located in the Hinterlands. Without a Warden, it was impossible to know if the documents were authentic. As a matter of prudence, they’d stored the treaties safely until Josephine could find a means of authenticating them. It didn’t seem wise to use official Warden documents, not with Blackwall’s strange actions, not with the world watching and judging the Inquisition.

Petrina was thinking the same thing, Cullen knew. The dip her brows formed over nose signaled as much. “Keep looking. In the meantime, I suppose I’ll tell the others to prepare for a journey to the Approach.”

“Be careful,” Cullen advised, “we’ve had word of darkspawn in the dunes.”

She tilted her head as she regarded him. Impishness pooled in those silver irises. “Worried, Commander?” she asked. His heart pulsed in his ears at the upturn in her mouth, the glint her gaze carried. It was a stark contrast to the bitterness she’d worn in Haven, to her usual neutrality around him.

“I’m sure the others will keep you out of trouble.” The words felt hollow coming from him. He wasn’t sure if he’d said them without stammering, either. Against the clamminess of his palms, the cold sweat running down his back beneath her piercing stare, he caught the rustle of paper at his side.

“I’ll have a scouting party on standby,” Leliana concluded, shuffling papers, “just in case you end up killing a dragon after all.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll bring the Bull with me. He’s rather fond of dragons,” Petrina suggested.

Leliana snorted. “You have _no_ idea, Inquisitor.”

_Andraste_. Cullen raked the back of his hand over his forehead. He didn’t need to know that about their resident Qunari. Petrina had gone red as a beet, though she was sporting a wry smile. “I should’ve known.”

The Bull was large enough to stop most creatures in their tracks, dragons included. He wasn’t prone to picking fights either, lacking Cassandra’s ferocious temper. Leliana cackled. “I’ll drop some of the information in your rooms before you leave.”

“I can imagine it just fine, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Cullen coughed, eager for a change of topic. “On the matter of a replacement staff, have we word of supplies for our arcanist?”

“A caravan is en route now,” Leliana assured him.

That was the note they adjourned on. Cullen headed out first. Footsteps fell in line with his as he headed down the hall. He shifted, bracing for Leliana with more awkward news of the rest of Petrina’s so-called inner circle. For once, he was glad to be wrong.

“I read that this isn’t the first time the Wardens have used blood magic to stop a Blight,” Petrina said under her breath.

Sophia Dryden’s actions up at Soldier’s Peak left a taint on the Order. Every Fereldan knew that story. It was taught to children like a morality tale. “No,” Cullen agreed, remembering too well how gooseflesh swelled along his arms each time he recounted the events at Soldier’s Peak. If not for Alistair’s father, the Wardens would’ve remained exiled from Ferelden, dooming the nation to the Fifth Blight.

“Solas seems to think the Wardens are ignorant fools blinded by their obligations to defeat the Blight.”

Cullen halted in his tracks, pivoting toward her. “Do you feel that way?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The Wardens are perhaps the only group to actually recruit and trust mages,” she said.

_Naturally, that’s where her thoughts go first._ Yet, she wasn’t wrong. For centuries, the Wardens had taken people from all walks of life, all races, if he or she could fight, they were welcome. In the Blight, that worked well. Tales from Denerim showed lithe Dalish taking down hurlocks from a distance with well-timed knife throws and arrows. At the fore were the dwarves of Orzammar, followed by the knights of Redcliffe. In those paintings, battle lit by the bloody glow of fire and sunset, two figures in silverite and blue were always at the front of the chaos. Leliana insisted back in Kirkwall that the paintings were wrong, that Alistair was always throwing Brynn behind him only to lose track of her once the battles started. She’d emerge from behind a hurlock as it slumped lifeless in front of her, gore dripping from her twin daggers.

Everyone remembered the Battle of Denerim for the valor of Ferelden’s future king and queen. No one remembered Amaranthine, just the name of the Warden mage that rose to prominence at Queen Brynn’s side. A mage who had fought with valor and would’ve been ashamed to hear of her Orlesian sisters and brothers turning to blood magic. _Felicity Amell._ No Templars, no Chantry, just duty. That was all the Wardens asked of its mages.

“Besides,” Petrina was saying, “they saved all of Southern Thedas.”

Cullen was shocked to find admiration brimming in her voice. He hadn’t expected it from her, not toward a mundane. “Yes, we owe them much,” he said.

“We _need_ them,” she corrected, “no matter what Solas thinks of them, they’re the only ones who can stop an archdemon.”

Remembering the black monstrosity that wrought destruction on Haven, Cullen nodded. If that thing was an archdemon, they’d need the Grey Wardens’ aid. “Speaking of Solas,” he said, “I heard you had a disagreement.”

“Mage politics,” she answered, her nose scrunching. “They always come back to blood magic sooner or later.”

Pushing past the stinging lash of discomfort brought by the notion of blood magic, Cullen raised an eyebrow. Petrina didn’t reveal any more than that, though. She jogged down the hall and disappeared through the door to Skyhold’s crowded main hall. _The dancing mage of Ostwick_ , Cullen’s thoughts taunted as he too pushed on out of the corridor. Teal flashed in his periphery, somehow slashing past the sea of gold brocade and robin’s egg blue sateen. She was speaking with Varric, but all Cullen could see was an ethereal smile parting that ruby mouth of hers in response to some quip the dwarf had uttered. In that moment, certainty dropped over Cullen. It was stupid. He was a grown man. Her commander. She was the Inquisitor. They were at war with an ancient evil.

_And yet_ , his thoughts sneered as he remained rooted in place, watching her sweep a lock of hair behind her ear, _you fancy her, don’t you?_

Despondent truth rang out in him as the response formed in his head, clear as his name: _Yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the only reason I know what sateen or chiffon are is because I used to be into Lolita fashion. The pretentiousness of the fashion community warned me away from that, as did the prohibitive costs, the constant "must have long hair, lose weight to fit in X brand" bullshit. I'm ranting about stuff that doesn't matter. Oh, and the layered clothing is super uncomfortable and awkward to wear... etc. Some nice people in the group, but the general gist of it just struck me as awful. /Rant that doesn't matter.
> 
> Solas is interesting. I do think he and a Circle mage, even a former one, would clash over blood magic, though, and spirits. It just kind of goes with the territory, I think. OH, and if you were curious, yes Hawke and Cullen are going to have words. I know why we didn't see that conversation (probably time, among other things, that and the risk of Hawke punching him out flat... with the MAKER'S GIANT FIST!) but, it's fic and I like bending things to my will. Maybe I'm mad with power. xD Love you all for the comments and kudos. I tend to respond in batches because I'm a weirdo and also incredibly lazy about logging in because sleeping is so nice these days.


	18. Goodness Interred in Your Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Approach brings nothing but tragedy and familiar discomfort to the Inquisitor. Back at Skyhold, old regrets linger like moths in summer. Someone from Petrina's past manages to track her down, to say nothing of delayed letters arriving at long last from across the Waking Sea. Having fought at long last at her side, Rowan reminds his twin that she's not immortal and that one can't literally fight fire with fire.

If Crestwood was bad, the Approach was worse. It wasn’t the scalding desert heat, a constant drone of white sunlight filtering past a cloudless blue sky and over sloping sweeps of golden sandstone. Nor was it the distant silhouettes of Tevinter ruins, pale sandstone gilded in black brass that stood like derelict ships in a vast untamed sea. Even the abandoned and ragged Warden pennants that flapped loyally on deserted roads caked in sand couldn’t unnerve Petrina. No, the thing she dreaded most as she arrived at the Inquisition’s main camp was that trek to the ritual tower Stroud mentioned. In the back of her head, she recalled the reek of blood burning copper onto the air as it yielded to magic. She remembered futile pleas from her lips, Ollie begging her to run. All the lives lost in Redcliffe Castle that night the Venatori tried striking at a sovereign king. The Wardens had resources the threadbare mage rebellion could’ve only dreamt up in their wildest fantasies. This was going to be awful, Petrina knew, and she wasn’t prepared.

Rowan was there when Petrina arrived with the Iron Bull, Sera, and Varric. Flushed with his hair clinging to a sweat-beaded brow, Rowan seemed no worse for his journey with Leliana’s people. He practically barreled Petrina down as she arrived. “This place is awful,” he said.

Scout Harding strode up to the twins, her spring hued eyes grimmer than usual. “Venatori and a high dragon, plus the Wardens out in the ritual tower,” she said. She inclined toward one of the wooden tables dotting the camp. “We’ve marked the location over there. This whole place feels wrong.”

“You can say that again,” Rowan said with a flinch. “I’m going with you to that ritual tower.”

Petrina nipped at her tongue to tamp an objection. Arguing was useless with him. “Stay close, then.” Unfurling her personal map, she compared her markings with those on Harding’s map. Mentally memorizing the path from the camp to the tower, Petrina tucked her map into her jerkin.

Across the way, the Bull and Sera were laughing at something Varric had said. All laughter ceased as Petrina approached. Growing quiet, the group headed out into the vast desert. “How’d you even meet an apostate in Kirkwall?” the Iron Bull asked. “I heard that place was _bad_ for mages.”

“She and her brother Carver were looking for a way out of the slums into this Deep Roads excavation my brother and I were planning,” Varric answered, “I ran into them after he’d turned them out of his office, and some kid picked Hawke’s pocket.”

Kirkwall was a place Petrina knew from stories. She’d never been. Like any Marcher, she knew Kirkwall as the _worst_ of the Free Marches. A former slave port for Tevinter, it hadn’t gained true notoriety until Knight-Commander Meredith’s actions at the Gallows that fateful night. The slums of Kirkwall were worse than the rest of the city, though. A gutter within a gutter. “Guessing they got out of the alleys,” Sera chimed, “seeing as Hawke looks proper fed now.”

“It was a rough expedition, but it made us rich,” Varric answered, deadpan.

Having read the book, Petrina knew the rest. Carver joined the Wardens to survive the Blight that he became infected with during the expedition. Varric’s brother was absent from the story. It didn’t seem right to poke at that wound. The personal ones were always the worst. “Anyone who survives Kirkwall deserves a medal as far as I’m concerned,” Rowan proposed.

“It’s not that bad,” Varric objected.

“Yes, it is.”

“How would you know? You were supposed to be studying in Orlais,” Petrina reminded her twin.

Rowan winked at her. “The dames of Kirkwall are always charming, the gents dashing, and the Templars far meaner than those back home.”

She failed to conceal a smile. “I thought you learned the lesson with the flirting. Remember Andraste?”

“That statue was calling to me.”

Raucous laughter ripped from Sera and the Bull. Varric was gaping at the Trevelyan siblings in a slack-jawed mess of confusion or horror. “No wonder the Templars kicked you out,” Varric said at last, “it’s a good thing Choir Boy isn’t here. He’d have a cow.”

The nickname for the prince of Starkhaven, Sebastian Vael. Everyone in the Marches knew about _that_ family. House Vael, like House Trevelyan, sent its younger children to the Chantry or the Order. Petrina always pitied the royals because they had considerably more to lose in a life of religious duty and sacrifice. “You actually tried to… with a statue?” Sera asked, red-faced with laughter.

The Bull beamed down at Petrina. “Boss, you should’ve asked him here sooner! That’s the kind of spirit we need!”

“I’d had a lot to drink that night and I was very happy,” Rowan went on, affronted by Sera’s question. “I figured I’d share that happiness…”

“With a _rock_ ,” Varric interrupted. Stroking his jaw, he smirked up at the rogue, “I’m calling you _Stiff_.”

At _that_ , Petrina pealed with laughter. Sera jumped back, suspicion joining her astonished expression. “Sweet Andraste, will you quit doing _that_?”

Rowan’s pale stare bore down on Petrina at those words, and yet, he didn’t prod. Instead, he shifted subjects toward nicknames. Varric began the long explanation of what he called everyone. It was a pleasant distraction for what was to come, and Petrina loped ahead of the others as they chatted. Verdant listed at her hand as the stone silhouette of a Tevinter tower swelled on the rise ahead. Outside the tower, in the shadow of a brass awning, were Dahlia Hawke and Stroud. Blood simmered on the air, alongside the pungent reek of rotting flesh, the cloying static of magic.

“You’re here,” Stroud greeted, “and not a moment too soon. It seems the Wardens have already started.”

“Blood magic,” Hawke agreed, her nose shriveling, “you can just smell the corpses.”

Power surged against a desert gale, honeyed and intoxicating. Steeling her resolve, Petrina inclined to Rowan. “I want you back with Hawke when we go in, then,” she said.

Rowan unleashed a sharp chuckle. “I _can_ handle a few blood mages, Petra.”

“No, you _can’t_ ,” Petrina intervened. “Dahlia Hawke, this is Lord Rowan Trevelyan of the University of Orlais, my twin brother. He’s not a mage or a Templar. Keep him safe.”

Hawke gave a mock salute. “Yes, Ma’am!” She tugged at the rogue’s elbow. “Come on, recruit. We’ll watch their backs.”

Rowan pursed his lips, resentment simmering in Trevelyan silver irises. “I’m also older than you,” he pointed out, trying and failing to free himself of Hawke’s grasp.

“I’ve faced blood mages,” Petrina finalized, “you haven’t. You’ll watch our backs with Hawke.” She gestured to Stroud. “After you, Warden.” Morose, the Orlesian marched ahead of her into the ruin. Petrina trailed him, followed by Varric, the Bull, and Sera. Rowan hung back with Hawke, albeit reluctantly.

The ruin was a mess of Warden corpses, clad in gleaming silverite mail striped with blue and bedecked in plates and pauldrons adorned with griffons. At the dais near the rear of the tower was a pasty man with a stringy dark ponytail and a staff in hand. Several Warden mages lined up before him, most joined by shades or the magma-like blobs of rage demons. “Inquisitor!” the ponytailed man cried. “I was wondering when we’d meet!”

As soon as his accent hit her ears, Petrina’s heart sank. _More Tevinter._ “You’re no Warden,” Stroud snarled, gesturing to the mage’s odd white robe.

“My apologies,” the mage preened, “Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium at your service.”

_At least you don’t know this one._ “I suppose you’re the reason the Wardens are summoning demons,” Petrina chimed.

“My master taught the spell to their mages to bind demons, but unfortunately, it has made them slaves to his whim. This is just a test, however, for the army he intends to raise.” Livius pinned his beady eyes on Stroud. “Not all Wardens fell under the binding, sadly.”

“Release the Wardens from the binding and surrender,” Petrina said, “I won’t ask twice.”

“No,” Livius agreed, “you _won’t_.” His staff slammed into ancient Tevinter sandstone. Scarlet plumed from the gesture and peridot flared against her hand in response. White danced behind her eyelids. She hunched against her sizzling mark. “My master told me how to deal with you.” _Focus._ Past the hot agony, she remembered what Fiona relayed about the anchor in Haven. It was a key. Petrina twisted her marked hand outward, reaching toward the energy threads pooling from the magister’s staff and _yanking_. Power burst. He fell hard, wheezing. “Kill them!” he thundered to the Wardens before jaunting off in blur of fade-step.

Energy thrummed on the air. Petrina rolled her eyes as the mages advanced, their eyes bathed in crimson light. Unfurling her staff, she washed the mages in flame as her companions dealt with the demons. Hawke rushed in with Rowan as the last of the shades dissolved to black-green shards. “So,” the former Champion intoned, “ _that_ went well.”

Petrina shouldered her staff. “Gather the Wardens’ personal effects and then build a pyre,” she recommended. They couldn’t leave the Wardens out to rot, not when Corypheus took advantage of them.

Once the others were out of earshot, Hawke folded her arms. “I take it all the Warden warriors were killed as sacrifices.”

“Yes, although Erimond lied to the Wardens and they were trying to prevent future Blights…”

“With blood magic and human sacrifice,” Hawke cut in.

_I never said it was a_ good _excuse._ Petrina rubbed at her temples, trying in vain to staunch an impending ache. “I think I know where the magister went,” Stroud said, thrusting a gloved finger toward a distant dot on the horizon. “Adamant, an ancient Warden fortress.”

A whistle from Sera signaled that the pyres were built, finishing the conversation. Petrina joined the others in picking the Warden corpses for personal effects. Once that was done, she wandered off toward the shadow of a withered tree and waited as the Bull, alongside Hawke and Stroud, began to put bodies on the pyres. Rowan startled everyone by reciting an Andrastian prayer for the dead. Petrina’s feet pulled her out from the tree’s meager shade as the last of the prayer fell. In silence, they stood vigil as Petrina shot a jolt of mage fire to the pyres.

Blue smoke curled skyward as flame crawled past desert timber. She rubbed at her nose beneath the hood covering her features, shading her face from the constant desert sun. To her right stood Hawke, glaring at the pyres, Stroud at her side, every bit as somber. “I’ll go with the Warden to Adamant fortress, and then we’ll meet you back at Skyhold to discuss our next step,” Hawke said.

A hand pressed at Petrina’s shoulder. She nodded, gaze slipping back toward Rowan. I’ll head back to Skyhold and let them know. Join us in the war room when you can,” Petrina urged the former Champion of Kirkwall.

Mute, Hawke and Stroud headed off in the opposite direction. _Blood magic_ , Petrina recalled, curling and uncurling her marked hand’s fingers. From a Tevinter magister. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium. She’d heard the name, though back then he was rumored a lunatic. “Are you alright?” Rowan asked.

“It’s always _fucking_ blood magic,” she snarled, exhaustion dogging her words. The heat and the long walks wore on her as much as this constant onslaught of blood magic did.

“We’ll stop them.”

The Wardens, he meant, from raising an army of demons. Invading the South. _Within the year._ Every life in Southern Thedas looking to her for salvation she couldn’t give. Men and women willing to lay their lives down for her. A pile of corpses loomed in her wake, and more were soon to follow. “Yes, we have no choice,” she returned. To the others, she added in a louder tone, “Let’s go see about this fort the Venatori have taken on the rise.”

The Bull brightened, always eager to take down Venatori. “Now we’re talking, Boss!”

Taking the fort was a welcome and familiar distraction. Cleaning it out would provide the forces in the region with a place to rest, right at the cusp of land caked in grit and what looked to be poisonous gas. Shadows swelled in the murk. Petrina supposed the shadows were darkspawn. She doled out warnings to Harding when the dwarven archer arrived moments later. Someone would need to deal with the darkspawn, but that could happen _after_ this mess was done with the Wardens.

A man from Starkhaven trailed Harding into the fort, auburn-haired, broad-shouldered, and reeking of blue lyrium. Knight-Captain Rylen, despite the Inquisition colors he bore. The smile was genuine, his handshake firm. “I’m Commander Cullen’s right hand in this area,” he assured Petrina.

“Keep them away from the darkspawn until we have a chance to deal with them,” Petrina advised, “we don’t need a Blight in the ranks.”

“Of course, Milady.”

Rowan snickered at the formal moniker. Petrina rammed an elbow against his ribs. They made their way back toward the path out of the Approach. She was starting to think Harding was right about accounts of the high dragon being the delirious musings of a scout that wandered too close to a poison hot spring. Then a piercing screech struck the blue skies. The Bull’s remaining eye lit with excitement. “Boss!” he cried, thrusting a finger skyward. A massive, scaled form dipped down from the heavens.

Turquoise eyes gleamed like gems in the beast’s dark head. Petrina unfurled her staff, adrenaline pulsing in her veins. “Spread out, it’s a fire-breather!” she called. “Don’t get hit. Rowan, that includes you.”

The beast circled above them a moment before diving sharply. Sand and grit welled up as it landed. Petrina fade-stepped as Varric and Sera somersaulted out of the creature’s way. Rowan waited, daggers glinting in the white desert sun. The Bull bellowed as he hefted his maul from his back and surged toward the dragon. He played the part of a distraction well. While he baited and swung at the creature, Petrina directed the others to target the dragon’s legs. This part was routine, and once all four legs were wounded, the beast dropped. However, right as the Bull moved to slam his maul into the creature’s skull, the dragon rounded with a lash of its tail. The Qunari flew backwards. Sera screamed after him, and Varric rushed toward the warrior.

Petrina’s throat shrank as the dragon fixed its eyes on her. Rowan shouted her name. _Move._ She fade-stepped forward, and the wash of heat at her back signaled that the creature, for whatever reason, was fixed on her. Bringing her staff down, she thrust more lightning at the beast. It wailed, and this time she glimpsed a flash of yellowed, jagged teeth as it lunged. The staff flew from her hand as she ran beneath the dragon, dousing herself in a barrier as wood and metal snapped beneath the creature’s teeth. _It was a poor substitute anyway_ , she concluded as she emerged from beneath the dragon. A tail’s whip caught her behind the legs, sending her right into the scalding sands.

A shout in Qunlat distracted the dragon as the Iron Bull charged forward again, Sera and Varric slinking out from behind him. Rowan glided to Petrina’s side, helping her to her feet. “At least you’re quick,” he said, though his voice shook against each syllable.

The dragon shrieked as the Bull brought his maul down against her skull. The deafening crack of bone and skin filled the desert stillness. Petrina winced as the dragon went limp. She’d lost her lone, albeit pathetic, weapon. The naked weightlessness of her tunic against her back pressed at her as they trekked back through the Approach, pausing at one camp to notify scouts of the dragon carcass out near the highest sandstone arch.

Returning to Skyhold was a welcome reprieve from the mess that was the Approach. Petrina held off on a war room meeting, opting instead to charge right for her quarters. After a cool bath, she headed downstairs. Varric was seated near his fire at the castle entrance, glaring a silent accusation at the flames. She left him alone. He’d talk when he was ready. Her feet carried her past the grounds and up toward the ramparts, to Cullen’s office.

Hunched at his desk, he straightened when he noticed her arrival. “I didn’t hear you return,” he said.

“There’s not much to celebrate, I’m afraid,” she informed him. “I claimed that fort for us in the Approach.”

“You met Knight-Captain Rylen.”

“I did, and the dragon is dead.”

Cullen chuckled against a faint hiss, fingers pressing at his temple. “Of course it is.”

“I couldn’t leave it out there,” Petrina said. She forced back a shameful gulp. “It also ate my staff.”

Cullen’s hand fell from his face. “Well, then it’s a good thing Dagna delivered on a commission I made.” He moved around his desk to his bookshelf, producing a sleek black stave topped with a metallic sun. Petrina’s hand brushed against warm metal as it grasped the weapon. “She told me that she ordered dawnstone from the Dales.”

_Explains the warmth._ “Dawnstone is an excellent channel of flame,” Petrina said. Given the color, she doubted Dagna had used _only_ dawnstone. Dawnstone was purple. Stepping back, Petrina rotated the staff, testing its weight. Though it was heavy, it was comfortable in her hands.

“Does it pass your muster?” Cullen asked.

“I have to be sure I can maneuver it,” she answered, face hot. Unease chewed at her as she regarded him. “Thank you,” she added, loathing how it came as an _afterthought_.

“You’re welcome.”

“I can’t remember the last time I was given a gift I could _keep_ ,” she went on. The Circle made sure mages didn’t keep much beyond the robes and staves on their backs. Sweets were allowed, but nothing of value. Anything she had at home had to be left there.

The way his expression softened at her words made her heart lurch. Vulnerability scored that look, and in her veins, she knew he reserved it for her. The last man who looked at her like that, open compassion and tenderness, had become an abomination that tore apart the very people they’d tried so hard to protect. Lashes sweeping downward, she changed subjects to the roar of blood in her ears. “We found the Wardens,” she continued, knuckles whitening against the staff. “Using blood magic, but that was just a test for the army of demons they’re planning to summon at Adamant fortress.” Her head fell. “Hawke and Stroud are scouting the fort now.”

“It sounds like you had a difficult time.”

“Corypheus sent a magister to teach the mages a binding spell that made them slaves to Corypheus. They sacrificed their fellow Wardens without pause,” Petrina went on. “It was a massacre.” She peered back at him. “We built pyres for the dead. Their effects were returned to one of the camps, just to notify the families.”

“Seems wise.”

All of this was in her report. She didn’t need to tell him about it. “We’ll know more when Hawke and Stroud return,” she said, despising how damp her hands had grown against the staff.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked next, startling her. Her eyes widened, then her thoughts mulled it over. Was she alright? They’d stalked through the desert for days to find a magister enslaving her fellow mages, albeit Wardens, to a self-proclaimed god. A darkspawn, the very thing Wardens were trained to kill and hate. Worse than that was the fact that blood magic, once more, was to blame. Blood magic, and Solas didn’t see a thing wrong with blood magic as a _tool_ for magical study. The fact that many of her own hadn’t seen anything wrong with blood magic. They’d turned Ollie into a monster. Killed Lydia, and countless others.

“I haven’t been alright for some time,” Petrina confessed, ramming the butt of her staff into his floor. “Which I’m sure you figured out in Haven.”

“You don’t have—you’re not alone anymore. This isn’t the Circle.” Cullen held her gaze as he spoke, pink stamping his cheeks.

“No,” she agreed, “it isn’t and I’m not, but what I do here will determine whether the Chantry returns to the Circles after this is over.”

“I highly doubt anyone will try locking up Inquisitor Petrina Emmeline Trevelyan in a Circle again,” he said.

The mention of her full name was jarring. Not that the surprise stopped the jolt her heart gave at hearing his voice against her names. Something about the weight he put on certain syllables made her name seem more than the mundane string of sounds it was, or maybe that was because she heard it so rarely now. The title “Inquisitor” was worse than “Herald.” There was more weight behind Inquisitor. More chances to fail. More lives to lose. “All the same,” she continued, “I’m not so foolish as to think my actions have no weight. A mage at the head of a holy organization? They’re all going to watch me, use my actions as a justification for what’s to come.”

Sorrow wound into Cullen’s golden-brown glance. “That’s a difficult way to live.”

“Life is never easy for mages…”

“You’re more than a mage,” he cut in.

Fingers clenching against the staff, she exhaled through her nostrils. “Am I? The Chantry won’t see it that way, nor will anyone else. All they’ll see is someone who can shoot fire from her hands on a whim, a weapon that must be contained before a demon gets hold of it.”

He swept around his desk at those words, and she resisted the urge to run back to her quarters. “The next Divine won’t make the same mistake as her predecessors,” he said, searching her features for reassurance she couldn’t provide. Her trust in the Chantry was gone. “She’d be a fool to consider retreading broken ground.”

Tradition was hard to kill. The Chantry knew nothing but Andraste’s teachings, and those were speculative at best. _Speculation never stopped those fools from relying on the Chant, though._ Granted, there was a time when Petrina had clung to the Chant, treated the words like they had power, sung hymnals, praised Andraste and the Maker. Long ago, as a girl with starry eyes who snuck salacious fairytales from her father’s libraries to read after curfew under the nose of a slumbering governess. Before the Circle, the phylactery, the fall. _The Conclave._ “I wish I had your faith,” she muttered, “life was simpler when I believed in it all.”

“I don’t know if it’s simpler,” he chuckled, and she realized then how close he was to her as the air rumbled with his laughter.

She snorted, jabbing her staff at the rug between her feet. It was a fair assessment. Even the Chantry faithful were shaken by Corypheus’s assault on Haven. Given the gossip circulating through Skyhold, most of the faithful were mired in confusion over the purported magister’s existence. “True enough,” she said.

They both jumped as a door clattered open. Josephine sauntered in, head buried in her papers. She glanced up once, relief assailing her soft features as they noticed Petrina. “Inquisitor,” the Antivan greeted, “I was hoping to find you here.”

With stifling politeness, Petrina offered Cullen a hesitant smile before urging the ambassador onward as the women began the slow trek back toward Skyhold. “Thirteen letters arrived for you,” Josephine said, “the bulk of which are from Ostwick. Several of your relatives are involved in a land dispute.”

“You’ll need to be more descriptive.” Those words alone described half of the banns in Ostwick, let alone those in House Trevelyan.

“It started with an insult over livestock, cattle.” Papers rustled as Josephine skimmed her notes. “Also, an insult to one of the relatives regarding lineage and something about eye color?”

_The Trevelyan silvers._ Petrina fought down an eye-roll. It was ridiculous and outdated, but the more traditional members of the house often invoked eye color as a method of outing someone as a bastard. A good way to revoke a claim once upon a time. These days, the notion was infantile. “Which relative was insulted?”

“A Lady Osher Trevelyan.”

The name was familiar, vaguely. They’d played once in the hedge mazes behind one of the summer estates. Petrina remembered a freckled, loud-mouthed girl with all the answers and large, brown eyes. “Shall I send some diplomats to soothe ruffled feathers?” Josephine asked.

“That’d be best. I remember Osher as being hot-tempered.”

“Doesn’t that go against the family motto?”

“You should know that nobles are more than their mottos,” Petrina reminded the ambassador.

Josephine emitted an uneasy laugh. “Fair enough, Inquisitor.” Retrieving the pen from behind her ear, she scratched more notes on her tablet.

“Speaking of,” Petrina said, “I swear I’ve heard of House Montilyet.”

“ _Everyone_ goes to Lady Trevelyan’s summer balls.”

_Except for me._ “Great Aunt Lucille loves parties.”

“I don’t remember ever seeing _you_ at them, though.”

Petrina chuckled, her head shaking. “I went to a few, mostly to sample the champagne…”

“…And sneak off with handsome Orlesians,” Rowan finished. She rounded as he sauntered across the walkway, smirking. “She fancies blondes, Ambassador…”

“Rowan, stow it,” Petrina cut in.

Josephine’s pen stilled against her paper. She looked between the siblings, uncertain. “I’m never sure if you’re joking, Lord Trevelyan,” she confessed.

“Oh, I’m _dead_ serious,” Rowan said, earning a swift kick to the shin. Petrina bore no regrets, even as he fixed a piercing glare on her. “See?” he asked through his teeth. “ _That_ is how you know I’m right.”

Josephine tucked a grin into the turn of her heel. She had other matters to attend to, always did. The woman never took a break. It boggled Petrina’s mind. She waited until the ambassador was gone to prompt Rowan, “Did you _do_ something?”

“So accusatory,” he clucked, then adding, “no.” He sobered a fraction to produce a bundle of papers. “Word from home. I thought you’d like to read them with me over a bottle of wine. Most are from Mother.”

“ _That_ many?” Petrina gasped. It was ridiculous. Bann Trevelyan didn’t give a fig for the mage child. _Gregory is gone._

Rowan raised an eyebrow, noticing the staff in Petrina’s hand. Rather than asking about it, he gestured for her to follow. “Come on.” They navigated the corridors and stairways to his rooms. Servants gaped as they passed, most of them young women bashfully ducking lashes at the coy grins Rowan threw them. Petrina quelled the urge to kick him. He’d always done that. If she ever tried such things, she’d have been hung out to dry back home. Being quiet and discreet was best. Often with the young, forgotten sons or daughters.

His rooms were just beneath hers, adorned in Orlesian paisley of scarlet, gold, and blue. A bottle of wine was laid out in the sitting area, alongside two silver goblets bearing ornate braid patterns on the stems and around the cups. Rowan set the letters in one of the red armchairs while he began pouring out the goblets. “You know, I met that Templar from Kirkwall, the Knight-Captain.”

“Cullen,” she corrected as she laid her new staff against the back of a chair, “and he’s not a Templar anymore.”

“No, but he was Knight-Commander Meredith’s right hand. I remember even _Harry_ thinking that Meredith was too extreme for the Order, that the Seekers should put her in check.”

“Yes, the _Seekers_ worked out well.” Petrina hadn’t talked with Cassandra much on that, save for a brief snide retort about how bad of a job the Seekers did in overseeing the Templars. The Seekers oversaw Templars who oversaw mages, but no one existed to oversee the Seekers. It was a perpetual system of oversight with no accountability. And now the Seekers had vanished.

“I’m just saying that back then it could’ve worked, maybe.” Rowan slid a look toward her. “Are you sure you trust him?”

“You read _The Tale of the Champion_ ,” Petrina reminded him, “Cullen let Hawke and the others go.”

“I suppose so, but there’s something unsettling about him.”

“He’s addicted to lyrium and fighting it. There’s something to admire about that,” she said, taking the goblet Rowan offered her. “He could go mad or die, but he’s determined.”

“Templars need anchors, in my experience, family or friends or both to keep them from going mad,” Rowan answered, a shadow swathing his profile. “It’s why I’m not too optimistic about Harry. You know they’ve seen him in the Dales?”

“Yes.” She downed a gulp of wine, smacking her lips together at its taste. The stuff was weaker than what they usually drank, no doubt on purpose. He was worried she’d return to seeking her problems at the bottom of bottles. Given that night in Haven she’d stumbled around shouting obscenities at Cullen and crying like a lunatic, Rowan’s concerns had merit.

“I suppose after this mess with the Wardens is done, we’re off to the Dales.”

“Yes, and Cullen is coming with us,” she said.

“Making cow eyes at you the whole way, no doubt…”

“He does _not_.”

“So you say,” Rowan clipped, gliding past her. They took their seats in the armchairs near his fireplace. He opened the first letter, reading in his best falsetto impression of their mother’s voice. Mundane news of the weather, trade, House Trevelyan, an insistent reminder of _reputation_ with Harry missing and Gregory gone. “Boring,” Rowan decreed, feeding the letter to the fire.

Petrina reached for the next one. Another one from Mother about Haven, the Conclave, idle threats demanding news. Threats that had probably gotten tied up in Ferelden because of the war. Petrina tossed that letter into the flames. There were four more from Bann Trevelyan, none worthy of note save the last. Gregory had fallen in love with a spirit healer tending to those injured in the mage-Templar fighting in Ostwick. The pair had eloped and headed to the healer’s home in Rivain. “Good for him. He finally learned to stand up for himself,” Rowan cheered with a gulp of wine.

“Cat will be the heir now,” Petrina said. She pitied the eldest Trevelyan daughter. Expectations would transform into impossible towers now that Gregory was gone. _Will he be struck?_ She skimmed the letter again before tossing it into the fire.

Rowan read the next one. It was from Cat. She wanted to know if the Inquisition was treating her sister well. Like everyone in Thedas, she’d heard the Inquisition’s military commander was the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, the one in Varric Tethras’ _The Tale of the Champion_. The letter ended with an urging for Petrina to “be careful.”

“Yes, imagine that, being careful and heeding our advice,” Rowan said, setting the letter aside.

“Believe me, I know how risky it is,” Petrina assured him with a furtive sip from her goblet, “but the Inquisition isn’t the Chantry.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like this former Templar,” Rowan taunted.

“He’s not what I expected, and Maker knows I gave him plenty of grief back in Haven over his former status.”

Rowan’s brows crept up his forehead. “You’re _awfully_ defensive, Petra…”

She reached across the space between their chairs to swat his arm. “Don’t be an ass.”

Shrinking back from her blow, he chortled. “Didn’t you hear? That’s all they train at the University of Orlais these days.”

Reaching for the letter pile, she pulled free the last of the bunch. It was from Elise. She just wanted to hear back, as she hadn’t received word beyond rumors that the Inquisition had survived the attack at Haven. The worst part was her surprise at the Templar Order openly attacking the Inquisition. Petrina tucked that one aside for a response. Conversation changed with that letter toward grimmer subjects. Red lyrium, blood magic, demons, the Grey Wardens. “Good thing I didn’t make it into the Order,” Rowan said, stare deadpan as it focused on the flames past the grate of his fireplace. “I’d be dead by now, probably.”

Nails scraping at her goblet, Petrina exhaled. “You’d have made a bad Templar. They always changed. After their first Harrowing ritual or Tranquility branding, the good ones realized the power they held and came to love it.” She chanced a look to her brother. “You have convictions beyond the Chant. It would’ve been a poor fit.”

“True. Look at Elise.” Rowan drew another sip of wine. “So, you’ve been killing blood mages and corrupt Templars this whole time?”

“For a while, actually.”

“And dragons?”

“You know I studied them in Tevinter.”

“That’s different from killing them, Petra,” Rowan said, swiveling toward her. His voice held no mirth. “That thing almost ate you.” The abyssal high dragon, he meant.

“ _She_ didn’t get the chance.”

“She tried, and any other dragon still could. Your fire magic isn’t enough out here.”

The fear in his words struck her. “What are you getting at?”

“There must be another type of magic you could learn, maybe a melee school to make you less vulnerable at close range.”

She pressed her tongue at her teeth. Yes, there was another type of magic. The precise sort that could help her in close combat. Chantry magic, the stuff of Circle legends. A special dispensation allowing mages to participate in combat alongside Templars and Seekers to defend the Divine. Knight-Enchanters. And First Enchanter Vivienne was one. _Just my luck._ “I’ll look into it.”

* * *

 

Josephine was in Petrina’s rooms early that next morning. An Orlesian lord was demanding her attention. Tugging her pillow over her head, Petrina grunted a profanity-laden response. “He says it’s important,” Josephine insisted, “and he won’t see anyone but you…”

“Why is _nothing_ ever simple?” Petrina snapped, rising with a gaping yawn.

“He said he’s a Lord Gabin Fontaine.”

Pressing her hands to the sleep weighing at her eyelids, she searched her memories. There had been so many of them. Gabin could’ve been any of the Orlesians she dallied with in Ostwick. “Fine, I’ll meet with him.”

“I’ll make the preparations in my office.”

“Sure.” Petrina trudged from the warmth of her bed toward her washroom for a brief wash and change of attire.

Downstairs, the rest of Skyhold was waking to a pastel sunrise. The tables hadn’t been set at this early hour. The scent of cooking food was wafting in from the kitchens. She stalked to Josephine’s office. A young man waited past the threshold, garbed in pale blue, sporting a silver gilt mask. Blonde, as expected. Broad-shouldered, not much taller than Petrina. She tilted her head. An inquiry boiled in her, evaporating as she caught a flash of green past his mask. _Peridot._ _Shit._ “Inquisitor,” Lord Fontaine greeted, stooping into a bow.

“Don’t do that,” she urged, every inch of her body running cold.

“Milady, my cousin Lady Adair recommended I personally convey this to you.” He produced a slender silver cylinder, filigreed in floral engravings.

Warmth needled the backs of her eyes. Crisp laughter resonated in her ears, alongside a memory of hands carding through her hair, lips pressing at the scars threading the small of her back. _“I love you.”_ She grasped the cylinder’s cold metal. Mute, she popped the cylinder open and skimmed the message inside.

_Inquisitor Trevelyan:_

_Oliver meant to give this to you, but he never got the chance._

_Yours,_

_Lady Adair_

Past the small paper conveying those words was a band of thin, white gold. Petrina’s throat shrank as she shook the ring out into her palm. An odd energy hummed against her skin. _Nullification_ , she recognized. It was a magic-resistant ring. Enchanted. _Formari?_

“Milady?”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She rubbed furiously at her skin. “Thank you,” she managed past a threatening sob. _He was good to the last breath._ Stuffing the ring in her pocket, she charred the paper and handed the cylinder back. _“Perhaps a ring, enchanted by the Formari, just to be sure,”_ he’d told her once, long after they were done. She’d laughed his concerns aside. Her colleagues would never hurt her. _You should’ve kept the ring. They cost a fortune._ Her feet dragged her through Skyhold. She made it to the stairwell before her composure cracked. _It could’ve saved you._

Fingers curling against her hair, she wept. _I didn’t deserve you._ The memories were a tide of sun-spattered lecture halls and hushed libraries, freckled shoulders she liked kissing, shy smiles and lavish promises. Knees buckling, she slumped against the wall. He’d loved her, and her damned stubbornness shut him out. _Got him killed._

“Inquisitor?”

Drinking in a breath to try and quell her uneven breaths, Petrina looked up into a concerned set of amber irises. The absolute _last_ person she wanted to witness another breakdown. “Th-that’s not my name,” she hiccupped, turning away as more tears spilled free.

“What happened?” Cullen asked, and the softness in his tone broke her.

Peering up at him, knowing her eyes were a bloodshot, swollen mess, she sighed against another great sob. “Why do you care?” she prompted instead.

“It’s not every day that a man finds the Inquisitor crying in a stairwell,” he remarked with a hesitant smile.

Breath pulsed in her lungs. _He’s good._ _He’s not a Templar anymore_. “Ollie,” she whispered, despising the vulnerability in her tone, “was willing to put his life down for me even after…” _Everything._

A sigh escaped Cullen. When she looked to him, astonishment rang through her at the familiarity in his expression. He knelt before her. Rather than proffering a string of excuses and platitudes, he extended his hand with a simple, “I’m sorry.”

Fresh tears blurred her vision. “So am I,” she agreed, “sorry that I’m such an idiot.”

“You can’t have known what he intended.”

“I did, I should’ve,” she urged, blinking past her new tears. “He was always so selfless, so good, and kind, and utterly unlike me in every possible way.”

Cullen reached out then, and she was stunned at how warm his hand was as it fell against her shoulder. “Not entirely unlike you,” he said, “given how they sing your praises in Ferelden.”

“I did that because I had to,” she objected, “no one else would’ve helped those people.”

“You also freed the mages in Redcliffe, even after they tried allying with a magister.”

She gnawed at her lower lip. “Again, I _had_ to do that.”

“No,” he said, his hand falling back to his side as he stood, “you didn’t have to do any of it, but you did. I’d say that counts, alongside not killing me on sight.”

That last sentence evoked a sharp laugh from her. “Yes, I can see it now: my tombstone will read ‘Inquisitor Petrina Emmeline Trevelyan, at least she didn’t kill the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall.’”

“You know what I mean,” he said, resuming his gentle stoicism.

She did, and that was the _terrifying_ part. Dorian told her after Redcliffe that she could change Southern Thedas. That was long before she was named Inquisitor. _If Cullen can redeem himself here, through this Inquisition, you can do the same._ Resolve hardened in her. They had a war to win, but after that, her people needed a future. Given how the mages looked at her, how the Inquisition itself greeted her with bows and fists over chests, she could be that person they needed. _Isn’t this how the Chantry got started?_ According to the stories, Andraste had been the same. She saved everyone, and they made her a prophet. Took her words as gospel.

_“All the people loyal to you, how do you keep them from seeing you as a savior?”_ she’d once asked her mother.

_“I keep myself from becoming a tyrant by taking counsel with as many of them as I can,”_ Bann Trevelyan had said, one of her rare moments of profound wisdom.

_“Even the ones who disagree?”_

_“_ Especially _with the ones who disagree.”_

Dabbing beneath her eyes with her sleeves, Petrina emitted a shuddering exhale. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing. Of all people, I understand.” He offered her a smile then, open, genuine, _kind._ Cloth rustled as he extended his hand. She placed her hand in his, letting him help her to her feet. Wreathed in the sunlight drifting in through the adjacent windows, his past as a Templar, as the Kirkwall Knight-Captain, melted away. In that moment, she saw a Fereldan man as lost in Orlais and this Chantry politicking as her. He lacked his armor, and his curls weren’t styled, but it was that hesitant, timid smile that sent her heart drumming as his golden stare found her. _Those eyes are always gold in the light._ It was a nice sight. _I should’ve bedded more Fereldans in Ostwick._ That thought did nothing to still the silent yearning twisting in her as he slipped past her and out the door. Dread rose up in equal measure against that flare of longing, smothering it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the dragons. The first time I took down the Frostback was a pain in my ass because I knew nothing, Jon Snow. But, then... I began upgrading potions, buying belts, the whole nine yards. It proved fun. I love the different breeds. I know the Abyssal doesn't have blue eyes, but let's just pretend, okay? I always thought it'd be fun if a fire dragon had blue on it. I love contradictions? I always found it weird, too, that you couldn't just encounter the Abyssal on your own, but HAD to go through with Frederic of Serault's weird plan. Funny as that guy is, and suspicious too... apparently (but that goes nowhere, so whatever?), I just don't see the point in the back-and-forth of that quest for a story. /Shrugs. Let's go with "Scout Harding made contact and recruited him later." I do try actually recruiting people in-game, even with my cheaty "no war table wait times" mods... because the influence you get from doing so is so good. Btw/fyi: special double update because these next two chapters are a set, really.


	19. Heroes and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's fun and games until the Wardens try summoning a demon army in the middle of the desert.

Cullen was still awake the night Hawke and Stroud returned from the Approach. Stiff politeness forced Cullen to greet Hawke. Hollow teal-blue eyes met his as Stroud sauntered off to the tavern. “I can tell you one thing, Commander,” Hawke said, “it’s definitely blood magic.” She trudged past him, slipping her gauntlets from her hands. A sigh gusted from him. He rushed after her. That halberd on her back was worn from use, the grip threadbare. Her shoulders were in the same firm line they always formed whenever she visited the Gallows.

“The army of demons?” he pressed under his breath as he fell in step with her.

She aimed a glare at him, slipping her gauntlets into the satchel at her hip. “There’s a lot of them. Maker willing, you’ll stop the Wardens from summoning more. Your Inquisitor is a feisty little thing. She can take them. I fought with men and women half her size and strength who could take on armies of Templars, blood mages, demons, a high dragon.”

Taking on the Wardens wouldn’t be an easy task. “Whatever you gleaned on the fortress,” he said, “relay it to Leliana.”

“On my way, _Commander_ ,” she sniffed, sauntering up to Skyhold. He rubbed at his forehead as she disappeared through the castle’s doors. Of all the mages he’d met, she was by far the most trying. Not that he could blame her. She’d spent her life fleeing the Circle, her childhood full of her father’s nightmarish tales from Ferelden and Kirkwall. _You did nothing to allay her worries in Kirkwall._

As he headed for his office, his attention trailed up Skyhold’s face. A dull yellow glow emanated from the highest room. Raising a brow, he stalked toward the castle. The image of Petrina, hunched at the base of a stairwell, shaking with sobs, had yet to leave him. He’d never seen her so thoroughly despondent. That night in Haven, she’d been _furious_ at everything and everyone. Seeing her in a blatant moment of grief had been startling, and somewhat reassuring. A human lived beneath that sarcastic, dry shell, and she was as scarred by her time in the Circles as he was, as lost as him, as uncertain. He had no certainty to provide her, other than the weakening of his lyrium headaches with each passing hour. The memories were fading too, but some of them he didn’t mind losing. The worst of them would never fade. Permanent stains on his soul, carved into the jagged white lines that studded his abdomen and back.

Shaking his head, he stalked through Skyhold. Past the threshold, a few souls yet lingered in the main hall. Rowan, Dorian, Varric, the Bull, Blackwall, and Sera were all involved in a furious game of cards. A collection of coins, plus a few glass beads and some vibrant glass bottles that radiated with color even against the dying candlelight, sat at the center of their table. “Ten,” the Bull said, sliding a few coppers into the pile.

“That’s way too much for me,” Sera grumbled, throwing down her cards. “I’m out.”

Rowan just leaned closer. “I’ve got money for days, Bull,” he leered, plopping two silvers over the Bull’s offering. “My trust dispenses gold each month to me. Hundreds of thousands of sovereigns.”

“Rich tit,” Sera grunted, though she was grinning as she spoke.

“And _I_ can out-cheat both of you,” Varric concluded, adding his own sovereigns.

Dorian added more gold, though Blackwall folded soon. Cullen lingered a moment, intrigued. “Shame our dear Inquisitor couldn’t join us,” Dorian clucked, “you’d think she was married to her rooms, for how much time she spends there.”

“Cat and Elise wrote her. As did _Mother_ ,” Rowan said, invoking his living parent’s moniker with a dramatic intonation and shudder. “I wager she’ll go through about forty drafts just to tell Mother to kindly fuck right off.”

“ _Language_ ,” Dorian teased, “think of the Chantry clerics.”

“Yeah, Stiff, you never know where Mother Giselle is lurking,” Varric quipped.

Blackwall rumbled with laughter before rising to his feet. “Well,” he said with a yawn, “I’m off to bed, I think.”

“Be sure to give the horses our regards,” Dorian deadpanned from behind his cards. Rowan nudged an elbow at the mage’s ribs. With a groan, Dorian rolled his eyes toward the Warden. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the demons bite.”

Cullen glided past the table on that note, although he earned a side-glance from Rowan in doing so. Climbing up toward Petrina’s rooms, Cullen lingered on the landing outside her door as he searched his thoughts for a suitable means of conversation. He wished he’d thought up an excuse ahead of time. _Nothing to do about it now._ He knocked twice. “Come in.” He slipped up into her rooms, and revelation hit him that he’d never seen her rooms before. Everything was garbed in royal blue and stark crimson, flecked in Orlesian white and gold. She was seated at her desk, garbed in nothing but a thin cotton shift. His breath caught at the fair skin peeking past the fine cloth. The wide collar had slipped off one shoulder in her work, dipping down toward her breasts.

The pen in her hand fell with a groan. She slid a look toward him then, and he ducked his gaze, shame flooding him, dousing any brief arousal he’d earned on arrival. Laughter burst from her. “Oh, Maker, of course it’d be the _one_ male advisor I have,” she said. Cloth rustled. When he looked up, she’d donned a peacock hued flannel wrapper. “And here I thought Templars _didn’t_ take vows of celibacy,” she teased.

“We don’t,” he said, cheeks flaming, “or, _I_ haven’t… it’s not required… Maker, can we talk of something else?”

Tucking a smirk into the heel of her hand, she rolled her other hand toward him. “By all _means_ , Commander.”

“Why are you still awake?” he asked, trying to quell the embarrassment basting him like a holiday bird.

She eased back in her chair. “Josephine’s doing. Apparently some _more_ Orlesian noblemen have learned that I’m not tied to anyone. I’m running out of polite ways to say, ‘I don’t _do_ Orlesians anymore.’”

Cullen raked a hand down his face. “I… um… I can come back…”

“Did something happen?” she asked, all traces of her previous mockery vanishing.

“Hawke and Warden Stroud returned,” he said.

“Great,” she deadpanned, lacing her fingers together. “I suppose it’s _bad_ news.”

“Leliana will review what they found at Adamant and tell us tomorrow, I suppose.” His attention traversed her desk. It was covered in papers. Several of them were scribed in flourishing calligraphy. _How many Orlesians are courting her?_ She was the Inquisitor. It was to be expected that she’d attract attention. He didn’t envy her _that_ sort of attention, though.

“It’s not that interesting,” she said presently, startling him. “The letters, I mean. I could read you one, if you want.”

Mortified, he scrubbed at his forehead with a sleeve. “That’s not necessary, Petrina, I…”

“No, I think you should hear this drivel they send me.” She snatched one of the letters, leaping from her seat to pace around her desk. In a bad Orlesian accent, she began, “‘My _dear_ Lady Inquisitor, it does the heart good to hear of your good deeds across Southern Thedas. I remember you so fondly from that night in Ostwick when we met beneath the fireworks. You were so fetching in that blue your family so often wears. I had not the courage to put my name on your card, ah but my brother was bolder. He is off in the Dales now. In his memory, perhaps we should find time to reminisce.’” Her nose curdled as she scanned the signature.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. _Thank the Maker I don’t have to worry about that._ “Well, this one is more of a cad than the usual bunch,” she confirmed, curling the letter into a ball before launching it into her fireplace. “Sera proposed we send them to the rude Chantry clerics in Val Royeaux.”

“I take it you refused.”

“Josephine insists the Chantry is _needed_ ,” Petrina answered with a shrug.

Her wit evoked a snort from him. It was true enough, he supposed. Nobles agreed on little else in Southern Thedas, save Andraste. That was one thing that allowed negotiation between the infighting elite. “How many of these letters have you gotten?” he asked.

“Dozens,” she said, swiping a lock of hair behind her ear. A feral grin lit her features. “Would you like me to read you another?”

“No, thank you.”

She clicked her tongue. “Suit yourself.”

“You should go to bed,” he advised. Her slurred words and wide pupils indicated that she was exhausted, as did the violet crescents beneath those silver eyes. He knew, too well, what sleeplessness did to a person.

“One could say the same of you,” she said. She jutted her chin toward the stained-glass doors leading out to her balcony. “From there, I can see the ramparts and the light in your office.”

“It’s different for me,” he replied, a poor lie. An awful excuse.

“You mean because of the lyrium,” she supposed, leaning against the edge of her desk.

“The dreams are worse without it,” he confessed. As were the memories. They replayed in his sleep, an unending song. Felicity Amell dousing shades in frost. Trepidation and regret churning with resolve in Hawke’s turquoise stare as she roused the mages at the Gallows. Worse than the nightmares, not that he’d ever admit such things aloud now, were the dreams of Petrina. Some were simple, little more than her laughter singing in his ears. Others involved her gasping his name, fingers darting across her lips to try and quell pleased cries. Those were the ones he couldn’t explain. Worse, he couldn’t tell a soul about them. At best, they were borderline blasphemous. At the worst, they were the lecherous ramblings of his lyrium-starved mind. She was the Inquisitor. He was her commander, and she’d survived terrible abuse at the hands of that brute in Ostwick. She’d softened some around him, but he wasn’t foolish enough to dream of more. Not consciously, at any rate.

“Dreams,” she mused, raising a finger as she rummaged through her drawers. Moments later, she produced a slim metallic object. “Catch.” She tossed it to him. He snatched it from the air, a ring hewn from white gold. Odd energy rustled at his skin, cool and warm simultaneously. Studying the smooth metalworking, he understood. _Formari._

“Petrina, I can’t take this,” he said. Formari enchantments were worth a fortune. Circle mages gifted Formari enchanted items to their friends and lovers.

“Ollie wanted me to have it,” she went on, “we used to joke about obtaining a nullifying ring before… you know. He sent it to me. I want you to have it. It won’t keep all the dreams away, but it should help quell the worst nightmares.”

Unease clawed at him as he thumbed at the ring. Its size was meant for a woman, but just having it near his skin would work. To remedy remaining uncertainty, he peered at her. “Are you certain? I don’t want to take something so precious from you…”

“He’s gone now,” she cut in, tugging at the fibers on her wrapper sleeve, “and besides, you need it more than I do. I’ve made my peace, in a way.”

Mouth running dry, he stuffed the ring in his pocket with a nod. “Alright.”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked. Her taunting grin didn’t reach her eyes.

“Get some sleep, In—Petrina,” he recommended. Rotating on his heel for a retreat, he added over his shoulder, “And burn those letters.”

“I’m sure our ambassador would object…”

“Then turn them over to our spymaster as blackmail.”

“I thought I was _your_ boss now,” she retorted.

Warmth branded his cheeks. “I… um… I meant it as a _suggestion_.”

“Cullen,” she interjected, too close, too gentle as her fingers skimmed his sleeve, “I _know_ that.”

 He hesitated, unused to her touch. Yet, the other day, he’d placed a hand without pause on her shoulder. Pushing past a lump in his throat, he nodded. He thought he mumbled a “good night” on his way out, but he had no idea. His feet moved too slowly, the rustle of cloth deafening even against the din of blood in his ears, the gooseflesh rippling his skin.

As he descended toward Skyhold’s main hall, _she_ danced at the fore of his thoughts with each blink. He kept recalling the slip in that white shift, the way the cloth swept toward that shadow between her breasts. In one of those dreams, he knew she’d mewled his name while he’d kneaded one of those— _Maker._ It was shameful. Had it been so long since he’d been a woman’s company? Much less one like _her_?

When he was back in his office, he threaded the Formari ring on a leather cord, tucking it beneath his shirt collar. Up over his office, Petrina’s windows had gone dark. He managed a few more reports before retreating into a quiet slumber. There were no nightmares, but when he woke, it was to the memory of her hands against his skin, her body pressed against his. Granted, _those_ dreams were better than visions of blood and steel. Yet, when he headed toward the war room that morning for the meeting Leliana called, it was with the eerie feeling that everyone could peer past his calm veneer, right to the turmoil brewing in him as he greeted Petrina on the path through the door. She offered a grim nod.

Hawke and Stroud were in the war room, though the Warden had resigned himself to a chair in the corner, staring out the window as dawn broke over Skyhold. Hawke was pacing near the war table, talking with Leliana. Josephine was taking notes.

“I can’t say for certain what they’re doing or how many demons they’ve got out there, but blood magic is never used for anything less than about fifty,” Hawke was saying, her voice edged in razors. Back in Kirkwall, news broke sometime in those last few years before it all went to hell, that her mother had been killed by apostate blood mages in Low Town. Cullen had dismissed it all as rumor then, but the fury her voice thrummed with echoed the same he’d heard in Petrina that night in Redcliffe Castle.

“Knowing what the Wardens managed at Soldier’s Keep,” Petrina cut in, sauntering up toward the war table, “I’d bet my life on them summoning a sizeable force.”

Josephine swiped a stray curl from her forehead. “I’ve written our allies requesting siege weapons. Some of our friends are quite willing to aid us.”

“Adamant Fortress has stood since the Second Blight,” Leliana remarked, “taking it will _not_ be easy.”

Cullen scanned the blueprints spread out over the unused parts of the war table. They were _ancient_ , most scribed in a language he’d never seen. Tevene, he supposed. But, if they were as old as the fortress, that meant _something_. He snagged Petrina’s attention across the war table. Against the heat flooding his veins as their gazes locked, he thrust a finger at the blueprints. “That might mean the walls were built before modern siege equipment.”

“Our friends can have any sappers here within a week or two,” Josephine said to Petrina.

“Getting the walls down won’t be easy,” the mage hummed with a look toward Hawke.

“Warden archers are good at what they do. One of them defeated the Fifth Blight,” Hawke reported with a dour nod. Her turquoise irises slid toward Stroud. “Are you alright with this?”

“Some of them might hear reason,” Warden Stroud said, mustachioed face shifting toward the group. “We should try and save as many as we can.”

“The warriors and rogues might,” Leliana concurred, “but the mages are slaves to Corypheus.”

“I know,” Petrina cut in, thumbing at her jawline. She stared a proverbial hole into the blueprints for a minute. “Our soldiers will be vulnerable until we break down those walls.”

It was going to be bloody. Recalling her words in Haven when he suggested sending soldiers with her to kill the Fereldan Frostback, Cullen chose his response with care. “We’ll get you inside.”

“Warden-Commander Clarel wanted the best for us all, Inquisitor,” Warden Stroud fixed his Orlesian blues on Petrina. “She could be swayed, I think.”

“Unless Queen Brynn shows up, that’s rather unlikely,” Hawke said.

A battle, this time on the Inquisition’s terms. Cullen stiffened as Petrina’s focus wandered to him again. “I’ll relay your orders,” he said.

“Spare those who listen,” Petrina urged, “alongside any mages that break their bindings.”

He doubted there would be many of those. “I’ll see that our forces are prepared.”

“I’ll send word to Jader,” Josephine chirped, fleeing the war room.

The meeting adjourned on that note. Cullen gathered his captains in his room, ignoring the full plate of food on his desk until after he’d relayed the plans. Most were excited, ready for battle. The confidence worried him. Arrogance was the surest way to die. He went through the reports on his desk once they left him to begin running drills. None of it was surprising, and he disliked busy work. Knowing his luck, he’d be on edge until the moment they marched.

Everyone was kept busy in the coming days. Petrina especially, and Cullen noticed her jaunting across the grounds at odd hours in the evening and early morning. He was puzzled until he noticed her twirling her new staff about, a green ethereal spear on the end. Understanding scored him as he watched her. In Kirkwall, there hadn’t been many Knight-Enchanters. Even the staunchest Aequitarians soon bucked against the Knight-Commander’s tight restrictions. He couldn’t blame them, in retrospect.

The other problem was that knight-enchanting itself involved militaristic combat training, muscle-building, agility, endurance. Mages in Kirkwall had been, largely, without the nutrition to undergo the program. Not that they’d have been allowed to, anyway. Petrina was often alone in these exercises, though once Cullen swore he caught a flash of Vivienne’s white skirts disappearing up into the castle. He didn’t have the courage to interrupt the practice sessions, but Vivienne alone was a good reason to avoid them. The woman was intimidating, to say the _least_. She was born to a family in Ostwick, without wealth or prestige, but that changed when she was sent to the Montsimmard Circle. Everyone in Orlais knew her name, held it fondly. Once, she’d been an advisor to the empress. It was odd that she’d agreed to train Petrina. Everyone knew the pair disagreed about Circles.

Yet, there was a respect between them. They both came from Ostwick. Petrina was highborn. Practical, sometimes to a fault. Vivienne was much the same. Cullen deigned against mentioning such things aloud. Petrina avoided his office lately, exhausted from her practice sessions. He hadn’t the courage to interrupt her until tonight. Tonight, breathless and swiping sweat from her brow, she paused to lean against her staff. A quick survey revealed that Vivienne was absent. He took that as an invitation to approach.

“Rowan said I should learn melee magic,” Petrina said as he neared, mopping at her forehead with the loose sleeve of her white tunic. “He was worried when we took on the abyssal high dragon in the Approach, apparently.”

“The one that ate your staff, I take it.”

“She was jumpy,” she replied, studying him. “I got careless. But I suppose there is wisdom in not _relying_ on fire.”

“Against dragons? Yes, there’s a lot of wisdom there,” he quipped without pause.

Her brows launched up her forehead. “He has a sense of humor beneath that façade.”

“ _You_ aren’t one to lecture me,” he reminded her, chancing the good mood.

Petrina chuckled, loose hair jostling from her braid as her head swayed. “Fair enough.”

“I’m surprised you’d pick up knight-enchanting,” he confessed.

“It’s useful.” Her lips drew into a rigid line. “The Chantry has done terrible things. I’ll never forgive it, but knight-enchanting came from elven mages according to Solas. They were called arcane warriors.” Her head tilted, mouth pursing. “Well, the actual name is something I can’t pronounce for the life of me, but that’s the rough translation.”

“You made up with Solas,” he noted.

“Oh, he thinks I’m _mad_ to try saving the Wardens,” Petrina scoffed, leaning back from her staff to shoulder it. “But I suppose we’ve agreed to disagree for now. There will be time to hate each other’s guts later, assuming nothing awful happens at Adamant.”

A chill gripped his spine. Adamant was going to be worse than Soldier’s Peak. At least Soldier’s Peak was in the mountains. Adamant was right in the center of Blighted land, a desert. They’d have to attack at nightfall. “And here I thought I was worried,” he said. His smile was forced. She didn’t notice. Her boots were digging holes in the muck between her feet, a blend of snow, grass, and earth.

“I’m always worried. I know how to kill Templars before they hit me. Mages are different. The guilt never goes away.” He remained silent as she stepped away from him, arms swinging wide. Moonlight struck her, emerging from behind a cloud, bathing her in silver. All traces of courage evaporated in him as those fierce, steely eyes slid in his direction, diamond-like beneath the night’s pale glow. “Any one of them could’ve been me.”

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought, least of all since the Templar attack on Haven. But for his change of heart that night in the Gallows, he’d have become one of those red lyrium monstrosities. More animal than human. “You’re safe here,” he said, a wan reassurance.

“I know,” she returned, “but it’s hard not to wonder sometimes.”

_Yes, it is._ “I don’t envy your position,” he conceded. He’d managed to cut through the red Templars at Haven. They weren’t recognizable, most of them. That was a mercy.

“Nor do I envy yours,” she replied, tugging at her staff’s straps. He gaped at her, searching desperately for some notion of what she meant. Then, she released a bitter laugh. “I’m not exactly the _most_ stable of highborn mages from Ostwick, let alone in House Trevelyan.”

_You don’t need to apologize._ Of all the people in Skyhold, he understood her demeanor shifts. Their ghosts were similar enough to form a warped mirror. “I’m the one who has to prove himself.” To her, to the Inquisition, to Felicity Amell, Hawke, every mage he’d wronged, killed.

“You’re here. That’s something.” Her ruby lips widened into a grin. “You also didn’t murder me on that mountain, so that counts.”

Face burning, Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck. He remembered that day too well, the exhaustion thinning his fragile patience further, her defiance. “We’d been fighting demons for days until you woke.”

“Even more impressive.”

His ensuing chortle was a wisp of sound. _Not as impressive as you._ Regaining his senses, he thrust back the longing clawing at him. “Life in Ostwick must have been rather dull, if you consider that impressive.”

“The parties were nice. And the Circle was allowed to enter a cheese wheel in the annual races,” Petrina admitted.

“Cheese wheel racing?” he asked, certain he’d heard her wrong.

“You’ve _never_ heard of it?” she gasped. “It’s the one thing Ostwick is known for, that and being the landing site for the Qunari that attacked Kirkwall.”

An image of cheese wheels rolling around a horse racetrack filled his thoughts. Thumbing at his forehead, he inclined for her to explain. She lit up, that stiffness she swathed herself in around him dissolving. “The wheels are coated in additional wax layers, oiled up, and raced down the hillsides. Every noble in the city enters a wheel. The Chantry never participated. Some rot about materialism and worldly distractions from the Maker’s glory.”

“I can’t picture _you_ racing wheels of cheese,” he said.

She awarded him with a laugh. “It was good fun, a nice distraction. The dancing was nice.”

 He _could_ envision her dancing with highborn sons of lords far above his station, composed, headstrong, certain of their convictions. Just like her. Another reminder that he didn’t need. They were worlds apart. That was the note he went to sleep on, moments later in the loft over his office. His dreams didn’t get the message, plaguing him with saccharine visions of her skin studded in marks he made, her mouth against his, hand trailing toward his codpiece. He woke slicked in cold sweat to frigid sheets.

 When he made it down to his office, Leliana was waiting. “The sappers have arrived,” she said, “but you should know, Commander, that I’ve heard some _odd_ things in the castle.”

“Don’t you always?”

“They say you’ve been batting those sad eyes of yours at our Inquisitor.”

Rigidity spiraled through him. “Do they?”

“Cassandra is concerned. I could care less. You’re both adults.” Leliana folded her arms.

The conversation was pointless. Petrina saw him, at best, as a friend. Even that was hard to say with any certainty. She no longer scowled and cursed at him each chance she got. He took whatever she gave him, and the rest was his to contend with. It wouldn’t interfere. Cold metal skimmed his chest as he shifted, the ring she’d given him. Hand migrating toward his breastplate, he swallowed. “You can tell her that she doesn’t need to worry.”

“I think she’s more concerned for your safety. Lord Rowan Trevelyan is quite lethal.” Mischief gleamed in Leliana’s cerulean irises.

“Has anything else happened?” he nettled, eager for a shift in topic.

“The Inquisitor wants a final gathering in the war room before marching,” Leliana said. “I’ve instructed my agents to prepare.”

Taking that as his cue to do the same, Cullen stalked off to find his captains. He relayed the instructions before stalking to the war room. Past the threshold, Petrina was strapping on her gauntlets. Hawke lingered nearby, running a whetstone over her staff blade. “Are you ready, Inquisitor?” she asked.

“I’m never ready. Everything you’ve heard to the contrary is a lie.”

“I _could_ say that it gets easier, but, well… I expect you know that’s not true.”

“I read about you.”

“Everyone has,” Hawke replied.

With a final readjustment of her straps, Petrina turned toward the other mage. “You know what I mean.”

“I can’t tell you more than you already know. I trusted him, but yes, I regret that night. Blowing up the Chantry made things worse for your cause.”

“Acts of terrorism tend to have that effect.”

“If I could change it, you know I would.”

Cullen chose that moment to cough. Both women turned toward him. Hawke tucked her whetstone into one of the pouches on her belt before shouldering her staff. Petrina took her place before the war table as Leliana and Josephine entered. Cullen didn’t remember the exact conversations, just that he answered any questions aimed at him. Petrina drummed her fingers on the edge of the table. “Well,” she said as the meeting closed, “let’s head out and hope for a victory.” He noticed the tremble in her syllables.

His duties carried him out of Skyhold, toward the cluster of soldiers and standard bearers gathering on the grounds. His captains each saluted him as he neared, fists over their hearts. Mages were sprinkled among the mundane rogues and warriors, some in Leliana’s uniforms, others in battle leathers and colored hoods. It seemed unwise, bringing mages to a fight against demons. But one could’ve said the same at Haven regarding the Breach. Against the dryness pressing at his tongue, Cullen doled out the orders he’d drawn up. The archers and mages would keep Wardens off the siege machines until a hole was broken in the walls. In the throng, he noticed a pair of dire turquoise eyes. He waited until he’d dismissed his soldiers to prepare for the march to approach. “You could be useful in keeping the demons off our soldiers,” he said, “if you want.”

“I’m always up for killing demons,” Hawke answered.

“Good.”

She tugged at the fur collaring her tunic. “You know,” she added with eerie sobriety, “when Varric wrote me, and said _you_ were here, I debated for a _long_ time about whether I’d come to Skyhold.”

“I imagine that was all of ten minutes for you,” Cullen shot back, unable to resist the temptation.

“Varric tugged at my heartstrings. _‘The Inquisitor is a mage, Chuckles. Just like you! She’s a lot angrier and scowls more, though.’_ I couldn’t leave her to you.”

Bristling at the underlying implication, Cullen crossed his arms. “I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“No, of _course_ not,” Hawke drawled with a roll of her shoulders.

“What does that mean?”

“I think you know,” she said, “though it is weird seeing _you_ all tongue-tied over a woman.”

“Don’t blab about it to her,” he urged. It was useless to ask _Dahlia Hawke_ of all people not to run her mouth, but he had to try. Petrina didn’t need any more problems, least of all a simpering former Templar fighting to shake the last of his lyrium addiction.

“You can _relax_ ,” Hawke assured him with a sugar-laden smile, “none of it will mean anything if we lose at Adamant.”

Scratching the back of his head, he continued, “You hid it well, the magic, I mean.”

“Father used to play ‘run from the Templars’ with my sister and I back in Lothering,” Hawke said, features growing glacial. “I learned fast how to pretend with them.”

Killing the apology brimming at the tip of his tongue, he nodded. “Stories say you’re not afraid of anything.”

“Stories say a lot of things, Commander. You should know they’re rarely true.” She fidgeted with her spiked metal gauntlet, chewing at her upper lip. “Every mage, apostate or not, learns to fear Templars sooner or later. The difference is that I had the power to do something about it.”

He’d imagined the conditions of the Gallows irritated her, alongside his scathing disdain for mages. The fact that she had to pretend politeness in his presence. “I know it was hard for you in Kirkwall.”

“It was hard for me everywhere. I didn’t even want to go to Kirkwall. Mother thought it’d be grand, that we’d be _safe_.” Fury twisted Hawke’s expression. “And we got there to find Templars beating, raping, and killing mages in your Gallows. To say nothing of making any dissenting voices Tranquil. You yourself said the Rite had its uses.”

Shame seized him anew at that reminder. Yes, he had said that, argued its merits to her with a straight face. “I was angry,” he relented. No one could hide from Dahlia Hawke.

“So was I,” she agreed, her humor and anger dissolving, “Father spent much of his life teaching me how to hide. Mother spent the rest of it doing the same. We wouldn’t have needed to cower if people thought of mages as citizens, not subjects.”

_As people, not weapons._ “If it helps,” Cullen added, knowing it never would with her, “you changed my mind on a lot of things that night.”

“For _her_ sake,” Hawke said, slanting a venom-filled look toward him, “I hope so.”

And that was the note they parted on. He didn’t even glimpse her again until the march began. She spent much of her time with Varric, often trading raucous laughs. Petrina kept ahead of her inner circle, murmuring with Rowan or Dorian whenever they got close. Sometimes, Cullen swore he caught her watching him, not that she’d let him view more than the subtle rise of pink in her cheeks or the modest duck of her lashes. They spoke little on the long road into the Approach. She sometimes caught him after a meal to discuss troop movements, patrols, the dangers of the desert. While she seemed to thrive in the warmer climate, he found the lingering warmth of desert nightfall stifling and had to start sleeping shirtless to avoid killing over. She didn’t have that problem.

But she didn’t brag the way Dorian did. The man was downright ecstatic to at last thrive in his flowing white robes. He took great glee in mocking Cullen when chance permitted. At the slightest hint of sweat on his temple, there was Dorian, ready with verbal barbs aplenty. “You Fereldans just _wilt_ in the heat, don’t you?” he quipped one evening after supper.

Cullen dragged what he hoped was a withering glare toward the mage. “When we return to Skyhold, I doubt you’ll be saying the same.”

Dorian shrugged. Wan starlight lazed over them as the blue above deepened into violet nightfall. A shout echoed across the camp. The Bull was wagging a finger at Hawke, who was red-faced with laughter over a card game set out against a supply trunk. Past them, Cullen glimpsed the telltale sheen of peacock blue. Eager to be rid of Dorian, the former Templar stalked toward that blue.

Petrina wasn’t far from the main camp, but she was alone, fingers twisting at her rolled-up sleeves. Desert wind rustled her braided updo. “It’s going to be awful,” she said as Cullen neared.

“Battles are never easy,” he returned.

“The Wardens are heroes. Not like the Templars.” She scuffed her feet at the sands. “We all heard of Felicity Amell, even in Ostwick. Her courage in Amaranthine was legendary.”

The name evoked memories of a simpler, quieter time, before abominations and blood magic, paranoia, Knight-Commander Meredith. “She was a brave woman,” he managed.

Petrina’s silver irises swiveled toward him. “You knew her?”

“She was a mage in the Fereldan Circle of Magi,” he pointed out.

“Right,” she said, “I guess I’m surprised. Given your past, I can’t imagine you remembering any mage’s name, absent the ones you tortured.”

“I didn’t torture them. That was my Knight-Commander’s province.”

Petrina’s boot dug deeper into the sand. “What was she like?”

Just the question reminded him of dimpled smiles, the gleam that entered those green eyes whenever she was onto something. “Lovely,” he admitted.

“I’m told she fancies women.”

“I figured that out, later, and anyway, it would’ve been inappropriate, as I was her…”

“Yes, yes,” Petrina intervened with an irate twist of her hand, “she was your charge, I know.”

Chuckling, he readjusted the collar of his linen shirt. “You asked.”

“At least you didn’t hurt her,” she continued, voice barely audible but for the anger that ricocheted through her syllables, “in Ostwick, Templars took the mages they wanted, or tried to.”

_Wendell._ In Kirkwall, Ser Alrik was the most extreme of the lot, making mages Tranquil to serve his sexual fantasies. Tranquil couldn’t resist. Other Templars, those left after he was killed in the bowels of Kirkwall, were inclined toward making mages scream. They liked the tears, the fear. “You don’t need to tell me,” Cullen said.

“I was one of the lucky ones.”

“In my experience, that often means little.”

She pinned a hard glare out at the sandstone marking the horizon. “I admired the Wardens. Every mage in those days wanted to be recruited, as Felicity Amell had been by Queen Brynn.”

From the bars of a cage, every alternative path looked benign. Cullen had pondered the same for a time in the Templars, if being a Warden wasn’t easier than being a Templar, a nobler path. It was nothing compared to confinement in the Circle, though. “I take it you have no regrets now.”

“No.” One corner of her mouth lurched into a smirk as she studied him. “So, you met Queen Brynn, I take it.”

“Neither of us were at our best then.”

“Leliana has only fed us bits and pieces.”

He didn’t remember much, aside from the unyielding severity. “Grim,” he supposed, “that’s how I recall her, at any rate. I didn’t _meet_ her, not really.” _Though Alistair did remember that fateful night in the tower._

“You were there when she came to the tower to seek the mages’ aid against the Blight. Between the Hero of Ferelden, Amell, Hawke… you sure get around, Cullen.”

He snorted. One could say the same of _her_ , given all the mages that had known her name in the Circles. “Derrick Amell knew you by name.”

“Yes, the world mourned the day my magic manifested. House Trevelyan’s main branch hadn’t seen a mage since Uncle Phillip ten years earlier.”

_I doubt anyone mourned when_ you _were born._ He raked his foot over the back of his knee, trying to mask his start at that thought. “Your family sounds lovely,” he offered instead.

“My siblings, save Harry, are fine. Mother has never liked me. The magic just sealed the deal on that front, I suppose.”

“You rarely mention your father.”

“He was a good man, kind. I don’t remember much about him. He was ill when I was sent to the Circle. It didn’t take him long to pass.”

“You weren’t allowed home for the funeral,” Cullen wagered, knowing too well the response.

“I was a child in a Circle. They don’t let highborn girls go home for that. The visits started after my Harrowing at seventeen.”

The Order let Templars take leaves of absence when necessary for family deaths or other events. One more thing he’d never considered about the Circle. The apology was automatic: “I’m sorry.”

Boots digging deep into the golden sands, Petrina nodded. “From this day forward, you are a mage of the Ostwick Circle of Magi. You will lay down all claims to your title, your namesake, your inheritance, and any power arising therefrom. You will owe fealty to the Maker, the Circle, and are henceforth obligated to heed the Chantry in all its forms, both clerical and militaristic. Should you flee the Circle, you will be known as apostate and hunted until you are either returned to the Circle or your last breath is drawn.”

He knew even without the explanation what those words were. In Ferelden and Kirkwall, the words were simpler. Any mage who passed her Harrowing received such a speech from the First Enchanter. “You remember the words.”

“Harry would be proud,” she said, lip curling.

“I was there when Felicity Amell underwent her Harrowing.”

Petrina lowered her lashes, a long shudder trailing from her. “There was an envy demon in mine. I just remember being exhausted and relieved when it was over.”

His hand had been cold against the hilt of his blade that night they brought Felicity Amell up. _“I’m not afraid,”_ she’d said. He knew that was a lie now.

“The Knight-Commander told me I was to kill Felicity Amell if she became an abomination.”

With a low whistle, she tipped her face toward him. “I’m surprised you agreed.”

“I was good at following orders, then.”

“Fortunately, for mages everywhere, that’s no longer the case.”

Chancing a small smile at those words, Cullen left his agreement unspoken. In the dark depths of his doubt, he knew he’d have killed her without pause if they’d met even just two years ago. She was right. It was fortunate for all mages that he hadn’t stayed with his Knight-Commander. That thought dogged him in the last few nights to Adamant.

Too soon, Adamant Fortress was cresting past the cliffs and dunes. Like most Tevinter ruins lining the desert, the fort was comprised of pale brick and black brass spikes. With Leliana, Cullen worked out the final plans for the assault. Cassandra muttered a prayer skyward. Dorian and Rowan were each speaking in hushed tones. Sera and Varric were trading jabs about bows. Vivienne and Solas seemed more solemn than usual. The Bull was quieter, though his Chargers were eager for battle. Cullen sometimes glimpsed Cole’s large hat bobbing through the crowds. Petrina was nearby, gaze trained on the fort’s walls as the first volley of spells and arrows went up toward the Warden archers.

Though the walls of Adamant were tough, they went down easily due to their age and the modernity of Orlesian siege weapons. Petrina whistled against two of her fingers. Cassandra, Varric, and Sera fell in around the mage as a hole broke in one of the walls. Rowan gaped at his sister but knew better than to argue _here_. The inner circle fanned out and into the fortress alongside Inquisition soldiers and battle mages. Cullen kept pace with Petrina as they wound through the gaping hole in the wall. “We’ll hold the path open as long as we can,” he urged her once they were through.

She yanked her staff free from its place on her back. “I’ll be fine, just keep the soldiers safe.”

_Typical._ “We’ll do what we _must_ , Inquisitor,” he replied.

“We’d best get going,” Cassandra recommended, “before the Wardens fill this place with demons.”

“I’m with the Seeker on this one,” Varric said.

Sera nocked three mismatched arrows in her bow. “Ready when you are, Lady-bits!”

_Don’t die._ Pushing back the memories of that dire night above Haven, Cullen gave a timid prayer to the heavens before Wardens spilled into the clearing. Mage fire cracked on the night. Sera and Varric somersaulted backwards, arrows and bolts raining down on the incoming Wardens. Cassandra took care of the heavy guards. The group pushed ahead. Cullen lost track of them as more Wardens burst through a set of adjacent doors. Unsheathing his blade and readying his shield, he lurched toward them.

It was different from Haven. This time, they weren’t on the defensive. He moved with more ease than he had then. On occasion, when he found himself overwhelmed, he was surprised to find his foes dropping against the rattle of magic. Those were the moments when Dahlia Hawke glided past him, that worn stave whirling between her fingers. Cullen also glimpsed the glint of twin daggers against the demons and soldiers. Rowan materialized from nothing, it seemed, to drive those weapons into the back of an enemy. Dorian was at the rogue’s side often. The Bull was never far behind either of them, easy to spot thanks to his stature.

Pushing through the fortress, it was plain that some Wardens had broken rank with the commander. More than a few raised their hands in surrender as Cullen neared. He found himself searching the crowds for placid blue-grey eyes, a wisp of dark brown hair. It was foolish, yet he couldn’t help it. He knew Leliana was doing the same. Queen Brynn wasn’t here, though. As the static on the air deepened, Cullen wished the queen _was_ here. The magic was thick enough to swim through. It rattled at his teeth, his bones, his veins. Worse than that was the undercurrent of spiced red lyrium on the air, joined soon by the shrieking cry of a beast. _The archdemon?_ Cold slashed at Cullen’s spine as the chitinous creature swept down from the skies.

“Archdemons just want to have fun,” Rowan intoned somewhere over the former Templar’s shoulder.

“ _Kaffas_ , that thing is heading right for the courtyard,” Dorian swore.

Rowan sprinted past Cullen. Cursing his luck, Cullen sheathed his blade and jogged after the rogue. Though he bore the other Trevelyan twin no affection, it was plain Petrina would murder anyone who let him die. Snatching the rogue’s wrist, Cullen jerked Rowan back as magic sizzled on the air, heady as mulled wine. Across the way, on the great bridge yawning out over the canyon, Cullen glimpsed the archdemon advancing on a distant group. One member was notable for the staff on her back, topped with a sun-shaped ornament. _Petrina._ “Let go of me!” Rowan cried, jerking against the former Templar’s grasp.

Lightning lanced upward from a hunched form on the bridge, striking the archdemon in its abdomen. The beast wailed, losing its balance and toppling over against the bridge. Beneath the beast’s weight, the bridge buckled and broke. Rowan thrashed insistently against Cullen. For once, he was grateful when Dorian swung around a bend to help restrain the rogue. Everything was chaos as the archdemon slid backwards into the canyon. Cullen strained against the dark for Petrina’s signature staff. He couldn’t discern anything against the swell of dust. Then, green split on the night and understanding shot through him. _The anchor_. Rowan howled her name as the dust and verdant stilled, revealing a shattered lip of brick dangling over the canyon. The archdemon unleashed a final shriek as it emerged from the black, surging upward into the starry heavens.

“Damn it all,” Rowan wheezed, going limp as a choking sob tore from him.

Releasing the rogue, Cullen turned aside and tried to ignore the uncertainty chewing at him. Dorian stepped toward Rowan, rubbing circles over his leather cuirass. “Now, now, your sister hasn’t met anything she can’t fight her way past. She’ll come back.”

“Commander.” Cullen shifted to find an auburn-haired captain, a woman of about forty, studying him. At her back were two soldiers bearing a chained man with a stringy dark ponytail in filthy white robes. “He says his name is Magister Livius Erimond. He’s the one who taught the Wardens the blood binding.”

“Take him back to Skyhold.” Petrina would want to deal with the magister.

“You heard the commander,” the captain said to her soldiers. Mute, the soldiers hefted the prisoner through the fortress. “Orders?”

“We wait for the Inquisitor,” Cullen said, “and until then, take care of any possessed Wardens or demons in your path.”

“Yes, Ser,” she replied, thumping a fist over her heart as she rounded on her heel to relay his orders.

Cullen threw one last look toward the canyon’s abyss. His hand toyed with the leather cord at his neck, savoring the press of her ring against his skin. _She will come back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the oath thing... Irving basically just says "welcome to the clubhouse, kid, don't fuck it up" once you're done with your Harrowing. But, I like the idea of something more formal in other Circles because Chantry. I also can see them really driving it home that mages get nothing because the rules are the rules and why should we ever dream of changing them? That tends to be how religion works, in my experience. On a lighter note, I guess Hawke is somewhat more purple-red than purple-blue here? I just wanted to make her more than the sarcastic ass she is depicted as in DA II if you go ham on the purple (which I so often do because some of those lines... especially in _Mark of the Assassin_ are gold).
> 
> As for Anders... loved him in _Awakenings_ and the 360 he did in DA II made me sad. I like his ideals, hate his preachiness, and the fact that he (despite spending _Awakenings_ telling Justice otherwise) let that damn preachy spirit possess him. Hate the terrorism, too. Like, good job, you made everything worse. I still help him because I think an apostate Hawke might still think he just needs some secret formula out of the Chantry or whatnot to get Justice out. Or might just trust her fellow rebel mage brother? I rationalize it somehow, and that's all that matters really.


	20. Walking the Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having used her mark to save herself and her companions from certain death in the Approach, Petrina must now brave the Fade with her fellow travelers. The nightmare leaves its scars on her, dredging up terrors worse than anything the demons dogging her dreams could've concocted. She finds herself sharing those dark regrets with the one person in Skyhold who understands what its like to be caught in a demon's grasp.

Colliding hard with blackened earth, Petrina winced as she peered into peridot skies. Sound gurgled around her, and the air reeked of moisture. Jagged dark rock plumed against green horizons. _The Fade._ She stood on uneven legs, her throat shrinking. Not through any dream or inducement of lyrium, either. No, she was here in the flesh. _The last time this happened, the magisters created the Blights._ Awe and fear twined in her. “Well,” Hawke intoned above, “if this is the afterlife, I demand an apology from the Chantry. This looks _nothing_ like the Maker’s bosom.”

“No,” Stroud answered, “this is the Fade.”

Petrina tipped her head toward their voices. They were both upright on a sweep of rock arcing over her. “Shit,” Sera swore, padding up to Petrina’s side, “Fade, demons, spirits, _crap_.” The elf shuddered, shaking out her wiry arms.

“How _do_ you people dream here?” Varric challenged, emerging from around a rock spire with the Seeker. He glanced up at Hawke.

She had a hard glare pinned on the jagged spires lining the horizon. “We can’t assume we’re safe here. That big demon with all the eyeballs, it was on the other side of that rift Erimond was using.”

“Yes,” Stroud agreed, making his way down the rock face, “and the rift wasn’t far from the main hall, which should be…” As he hit the ground proper, he rotated and jabbed a thumb toward a vibrant gleam of acidic green across the way. “There, that’s where we should go.”

“I don’t like any of this,” Cassandra confessed, looking to Petrina.

“Neither do I,” Petrina said, “but this is better than waiting around for demons to find us. Don’t listen if you start hearing voices in your head.”

“I wager most of us have those,” Hawke quipped back, plopping down from her perch with a grunt.

“Just you, Chuckles,” Varric sighed.

At a trudge, they moved up the nearest slope. Petrina followed what seemed to be a path, stairs hewn into ancient rock. Assuming it was real. She wasn’t sure with the Fade. That was the reason the Circle urged caution. A gasp tore from Cassandra as the group cleared the hill. Petrina’s throat shrank as a pair of gentle blue Orlesian eyes found hers from beneath an enormous white, red, and gold hat. “Divine Justinia?” she whispered.

The wizened woman offered a gentle nod to the mage. “Most Holy?” Cassandra asked.

“A spirit, most likely,” Petrina urged, her shock waning.

“Inquisitor Petrina Emmeline Trevelyan,” Divine Justinia said, “a senior enchanter with the Circle of Magi at Ostwick, member of the Libertarian fraternity, youngest of House Trevelyan’s main branch.”

“Right, that is _creepy_ ,” Sera muttered, “make it stop, will you?”

Bitterness welled in Petrina. The spirit was well-informed. It meant nothing. _And yet, she_ does _know a lot._ “You know me.”

“You don’t remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” the spirit stated.

_Not this again._ When she’d woken after the Conclave, she’d had to reiterate _constantly_ that she didn’t remember what happened. All she knew was that she’d stepped out once a recess was called at the Conclave. Then green swallowed the world and she woke to irons around her wrists, green zapping at her hand. “No,” she agreed, “I don’t.”

“You will need to recover your memories. The demon that rules this area is the nightmare you fear upon waking. It sits here, growing fat upon the terror of dreamers. The Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work,” the spirit went on.

Stroud thumped a fist into his palm. “I will take vengeance on this demon for my brothers and sisters, then.”

“You will have your chance, brave Warden.” To Petrina, the spirit added, “ _These_ are your memories.” She gestured toward the orbs of green light streaking past the Fade’s murk.

Wary, Petrina moved to the closest orb. Her mark seared with light as she extended it toward the glow. Peridot popped and her knees buckled. A vision fanned out above her. The Temple of Sacred Ashes, one of the main halls, adorned in Andrastian gold, white, and red. She saw herself sweep down a long corridor, rubbing at flushed cheeks to slow her rampant heartbeat. _I spoke at the Conclave. That’s right._ That was when she turned through a set of scarlet doors, into a wide room. Energy sizzled on the air. The Divine was suspended by tendrils of red energy, fringed by men and women garbed in blue and silverite mail. _Warden mages._ Past them was Corypheus, advancing with his brass orb in hand. “Keep the sacrifice still,” he urged.

“What’s going on here!?” Petrina’s past self demanded.

“We have an intruder,” Corypheus mused, “kill her.” Yet, the orb had fallen from his hand at her entrance. She reached for it. Neon drowned the world as it scarred her left hand.

_It’s not divine_ , Petrina realized as the vision faded. She was right. This whole time. Her mark was created through magic, that odd elven orb. “So,” Stroud said as she faced the others, “your mark wasn’t created by the Maker or Andraste.”

“I _knew_ it,” Petrina sighed, relief tumbling through her in waves.

The spirit bobbed her head, that ridiculous Divine’s hat tipping in the gesture. “And now you may be certain.” She disappeared in a blink of gold light.

Hawke remained rigid after the spirit vanished, a glare fixed on Stroud. He answered her with a frown. “Something on your mind?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you’d be concerned about the Grey Wardens making Divine Justinia a blood sacrifice for Corypheus,” she said.

“I assume their minds were taken by Corypheus, as you’ve seen him do before.” Hawke scowled. Stroud tugged at his mustache. “We can argue about this later,” he said.

“We will,” she assured him.

Petrina led the group on through the Fade. As they moved forward, a voice rumbled on the air. “My, my,” a baritone purred, “if it isn’t the libertine herself.” She steeled her nerves. “How many lives did it cost you, little jay?”

Fists tightening at her sides, Petrina set her jaw. “He’s dead because of you, you know,” the demon went on. Her cheeks simmered. She felt the others’ stares on her. “He loved you more than anything, and you left him to those savages he warned you about. You’re nothing but a monster.”

At those words, she was stunned to find reassurance streaking into her thoughts. Cullen’s voice pulsed in her ears: _“You’re not a monster.”_ _I know that._ Resolve hardening, she emitted a sharp exhale.

“Firestarter?” Varric asked, tone leaden.

“We should keep moving.” She lengthened her strides. The whole place unsettled her, beckoned at the depths of that dark night in Ostwick when she was pulled from the apprentice quarters for her Harrowing. She recalled the static of lyrium and magic on the air, the First Enchanter’s compassionate stare as he extended a hand toward her, the envy demon’s relentless taunts.

The nightmare here was nothing like the envy demon back then, though. The envy demon was snide and coy, albeit constant. The nightmare took breaks, leering at the others with each corner they passed. Hawke alone seemed unfazed, odd for an apostate. Petrina found it hard to tuck that old prejudice aside. It was typical of most mages in the Circles. Even Libertarians distrusted apostates, at least they _once_ had. Mages still needed training, warnings against blood magic, demons. A child was vulnerable to possession. The Fade was dangerous. Magic was dangerous. Vivienne had that much right, as did her loyalists. _It’s not a reason to chain us._ Yet, Hawke wasn’t like Solas. She was open and friendly. Her father had escaped the Circle.

_She knows some things, to hear Varric tell it._ “This demon’s rather chatty,” Hawke was saying presently, “not unlike the ones we encountered in the Fade.”

“It’s nicer,” Varric supposed, “in that it’s not trying to turn us against each other.”

“Why would it?” Petrina cut in. “It’s a _fear_ demon.”

“We’re also here in the flesh,” Hawke added, “I suppose that makes things different.”

“Yes, just like Corypheus and the magisters that began the Blights, fantastic,” Petrina blurted. Loathing curdled in her at those words, but they were true, or at least _partially_ true. She was a mage, just as they’d been, once. _The Blights made the world much more dangerous._ Harry had always adored Chantry history. She thought him an idiot for it before this mess with Corypheus. _Who’s laughing now?_

“Yes, indeed,” the nightmare purred above her. She jerked to a halt in her tracks. It had changed tactics. “He was right too, wasn’t he? You will always be a Trevelyan, but it will mean nothing. No inheritance. No title. Nothing but the stain of magic on your hands, the blood on your soul. You should’ve listened to your elders.”

Irritation flared in her, quick and bright as her fire had that fateful night she turned eight. “He’s probably dead too, you know. The _good_ son. The prodigal child. He accepted his role without complaint. Everyone would’ve been better off if you’d just submitted.” She raked a hand through her hair. Her composure was cracking. The thing cut deeper than any creature in her dreams ever managed. “Your mother will disown you once she hears of his death. She’s never cared for you…”

“ _Kaffas_ , I know that!” Petrina shrieked, her patience shattering.

The nightmare bellowed with malevolent laughter as it went silent. She halted in her tracks, thumbing at the tears blurring her vision. It was a dumb thing to weep over, especially as a _grown_ woman. Yet, a part of her remained sullen over it. The others had earned the bann’s affections so easily, even Rowan.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra whispered, too soft for the harsh Seeker. Shame engulfed Petrina as a thick sob tore through her. She’d worked so hard to hide it. Cullen knew, but she’d never wanted the others to see her crying like a child.

“Come on, Cassandra, Mustache, let’s go over there and look at all that… rock shite,” Sera chimed.

A hand squeezed at Petrina’s shoulder. She buried her face in her hands as the tears continued streaming. “Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s not exactly the _imposing_ image an inquisitor should project.”

“Trust me, I’m a professional at dealing with emotional outbursts,” Hawke said. Her hand dropped back to her side.

“Tall people are weird about the magic stuff,” Varric groused at the women.

Petrina snorted with a sniffle, her hand rummaging through her pocket for a handkerchief. “You have _no_ idea,” she retorted.

“My mother was always distant with Bethany and I,” Hawke said, “but she never stopped caring about us.”

“It is always touch and go with Mother,” Petrina replied. That was the truth of it. As the mage, she had to uphold the family name in the Circle. There was never any in-between about it, and nothing was good enough. Denouncing blood magic and apostasy at each turn did nothing to cement allegiances. There wasn’t an ounce of affection, not towards _her_.

“Take it from me,” Varric urged, his grey eyes somber, “family life is never simple, least of all among the elite, from what I’ve seen.”

“Families are often difficult,” Hawke said, “like Carver. He’s an ass, but he’s still my brother.”

Bann Trevelyan wrote a few days ago. Petrina had skimmed the letters, listened to half the words. It was nothing but rot about reputation, their name, the branches in Ostwick. Pert reminders to keep her “more rebellious inclinations” in check. _“Maker knows what they will say if you become an abomination the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall must put down,”_ one of the letters concluded. Rowan had good fun with that line, insisting that it was a good thing their mother hadn’t met the softy Cullen had become. “Neither of you know my mother,” Petrina said, “everything is about the family, the money, nothing more.”

“Firestarter, I doubt there’s a bann alive that wouldn’t be glad to have a daughter like you. Granted, you scare the piss out of me sometimes, but you’re the _Inquisitor_ , the chosen one,” Varric reminded her.

“By _circumstance_ ,” she corrected him, her shoulders falling. Her signet ring gleamed verdant beneath the Fade’s strange glow.

“You’ve killed _high dragons_.”

“I’ve had help.”

“Even _I_ just killed one,” Hawke chimed.

Petrina rolled her eyes. “You saved a city from a horde of rampaging Qunari. I’d say that more than makes up for it.”

“Varric exaggerated a bit. There weren’t _that_ many.”

“There were _thousands_ , and they were all twice the size and strength of the human armies,” Varric retorted.

Petrina chuckled. Her dour mood lightened. Despite the dire circumstances surrounding them, she found her past regrets melting some. It was good to voice those familiar fears, vulnerable and exposed as they made her feel. In the Circle, revealing emotions was a risk. Trust had to be absolute. There were few she’d trusted, even among her fellow mages. Lydia and Ollie had been exceptions. Going things alone was safer. _“You’re not alone anymore.”_ That was what Cullen told her. She supposed he was right, not that it made things any easier.

“You _are_ pretty when you laugh,” Hawke remarked, grinning.

Varric scrunched his nose. “Chuckles, I’d be careful if I were you.”

“Not on fire yet, so I’d say I’m safe,” Hawke teased.

Petrina whistled to the others. “Come on,” she called. “We have a demon to kill.”

The renewed call to action did nothing to stop the pitying glances from Cassandra. Petrina found those unsettling. On they went, through the Fade. As the group rounded a bend, Petrina glimpsed another flash of acidic verdant. Her marked hand tore out toward the energy. The vision spread out above the group again, this time she _knew_ what it was as she watched herself scramble up a dark cliff toward Divine Justinia V. Up past a horde of encroaching spiders.

Past-Petrina hefted herself up over the lip of the rock. Behind the women was a green-red gash in reality. Past-Petrina turned toward the rift, charging toward it as the spiders lurched up after her. One of them seized Justinia’s gown. Petrina spun on her heel, tugging at the Divine’s hands. The wizened woman shook her head as more spiders joined in, releasing the mage’s hands. “ _Go_.”

Past-Petrina hesitated, gnawing on her lip. Spiders wailed as they swept up toward her. She sailed through the rift. Understanding dawned as the vision waned. _The Divine sent me from the Fade._ “It was you,” Petrina said currently as she turned toward the spirit that manifested before them in the Divine’s face. “The Divine died here that day. She sent me from the Fade. Not Andraste.”

“So, this a spirit?” Stroud asked, gaping at the thing.

“In _the Fade_? Who’d have thought?” Hawke drawled.

“I’m sorry if I disappoint you,” the spirit breathed before the Divine’s visage dissolved into a woman’s silhouette of golden light.

Petrina pushed back a beckoning wad of discomfort. It had helped them so far. “Getting out of the Fade is all that matters now.” The spirit vanished in a blip of light.

“Yes, _assuming_ the Wardens didn’t destroy the Inquisition while we were gone,” Hawke clipped with a sidelong glare at Stroud.

“I already explained this,” the Warden groused, “Corypheus took their minds…”

“Even without him, the Wardens have gone too far. They have always been allowed to do whatever they wanted. Someone must check them,” Hawke objected.

“Says the woman who tore Kirkwall apart and began the mage rebellion…”

“To protect innocent mages, not madmen drunk on blood magic!”

“ _Wardens_ saved us from the Blight,” Petrina cut in. Motion skittered in her periphery. “And this argument can wait until we’re out of danger.”

Sera was already nocking three arrows. Spiders tore over the nearest snatch of rock, large and dark. Everyone surged to action, demolishing the fears. “Smaller fears,” Petrina wagered as she shouldered her staff.

“ _Spiders_ , of course,” Hawke grumbled. “Why is it _always_ giant spiders?”

“I’d _love_ spiders,” Sera said, shuddering.

It soon turned out that Petrina agreed with the archer. The next round of fears wore familiar faces that ranged from her mother’s to Wendell to Ollie, Harry, Lydia, and even Cullen. That last one puzzled Petrina until she noted the pang that struck her with each one she felled. Leave it to a demon to figure _that_ one out. She forced herself to stop looking at them, opting to rain fire on the demons without pause. That made it easier.

There were more fears the closer the group drew toward the rift. It seemed an age until, at last they were before the gaping wound in the Veil. A tear yawning out into Adamant Fortress. Covered in grime and viscera, the group was no worse the wear. Aside from the massive white spider that yawned ahead of them over the entrance. Countless beady eyes fixed on Petrina. She quelled a tide of beckoning nausea as the creature peered at her. Light flared in the corner of her vision. The spirit from earlier strode forward.

“If you would, please tell Leliana that ‘I’m sorry, I failed you too.’” The spirit dissolved as it collided with the spider’s hulking face.

In the spirit’s wake, Hawke inched toward the demon as it advanced on the group, reaching for her staff. “Go, I’ll cover you…”

“ _No_ ,” Stroud and Varric chimed.

Stroud cleared his throat. “I should go. The Wardens did this. A Warden should…”

“Help them rebuild,” Hawke interrupted, “that’s your job.” She reached for her staff.

Varric swore under his breath. “Chuckles, just let the hero _be_ a hero.”

Petrina sucked at her teeth. Whoever stayed was going to die. _To a demon. A nightmare._ Yet, she couldn’t leave Dahlia Hawke behind. Hawke had saved every mage in Thedas that night in Kirkwall, saved Kirkwall, was a reminder to all mages that great things were possible without blood magic and demons, constant Templar oversight. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Petrina forced her gaze to Stroud’s. “Warden.”

He offered her a gentle smile. “Inquisitor, it’s been an honor.”

_More death. Another life-debt._ He unsheathed his blade and rushed toward the demon. The others skirted beneath the spider’s massive legs, through the rift. Petrina headed out last, heart thundering at her ribs as she fell through to stone. Her marked hand snapped the rift closed with a flash of pins and needles. When she looked up, it was to countless Wardens and Inquisition soldiers. Cheers rang out. Her gut churned. They wanted a speech. Someone asked about Stroud. _Here we go._

In the years to come, someone would immortalize Petrina’s words in print. She didn’t remember what she said. Something about a noble sacrifice against the Blight, remembrance and honor, even as Corypheus tried to destroy a noble order from within. Searching faces looked to her now for guidance. Cassandra wanted the Wardens sent away from Orlais and Ferelden. Yet, Petrina scanned the crowd and caught the slight shake of Leliana’s hooded head there. The Wardens would stay. Darkspawn remained. Provided the Wardens stayed away from Venatori, all would be well. That was the note Petrina ended on and the crowds, mercifully, dispersed.

Hawke approached as they faded. “Looks like the spirit was right,” she said, “killing the nightmare means the Wardens are now free of Corypheus’s control and he’s lost a demon army.” She winked. “Though, to _them_ , this is all a blessing of the Maker courtesy of Andraste’s Herald.”

Petrina pushed down a wad of bile at the moniker. A title she’d never wanted. “They came out of this alive. They can have their stories.”

Hawke lifted a dark brow. “You know, that’s how legends start, right? That’s what Varric always says. At any rate, looks like I’m off to the Wardens. Good luck with your Inquisition. Try not to start any Exalted Marches.”

“That’s the _last_ thing on my mind.”

Hawke rotated on her heel. “You never know.” She lifted a pair of fingers before fading into the crowd.

Petrina released a shaking exhale. She had a moment’s peace before Rowan loped toward her, pulled her close. “Maker’s blood,” he swore, “I was worried.”

She clung to him, drinking in the feel of another human’s closeness. “It’s shit,” she murmured, “the Fade, I mean.”

“I figured _that_ out,” Rowan answered, “you’re not…”

“No, but I lost my nerve in front of the _Seeker_.”

“What do you mean?”

“Crying, snot, the whole nine yards,” she grumbled, nails raking at his leather cuirass.

He pulled back, grinning. “And here I thought you’d lost your feelings in the Circle.”

“Ass,” she grunted with a light kick to his shin. He staggered backwards, feigning injury.

Past him, she glimpsed Cullen striding toward her, relief hewn into those stern Fereldan features. Remembering the fears in the Fade, she forced down lingering unease. It was an odd thing, whatever lay between them now. He was a friend. She’d trusted him with her darkest secrets. He’d done the same with her. They were both remnants of a system that no longer existed, no longer _could_ exist _._ “I’ve had the magister chained,” he informed her as he neared.

“Good. Death is too good for that one.” Somehow, she doubted there would be any regret when Erimond’s head dropped.

“This was a victory,” he added.

It didn’t feel like one. Stroud was gone. Hawke was off to Weisshaupt. _And you lost your marbles in front of a former Seeker._ “I’ll take your word on that front, Cullen.”

“Did something happen?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she vowed. Assuming she could work up the nerve.

* * *

 

Returning to Skyhold was a drudge. Leliana seemed to be in good spirits. Petrina couldn’t understand why until one night, just after their return to Skyhold, when she found a letter on her desk. A letter that bore the crest of a laurel crown in its wax seal. Ornate cursive bedecked the page:

_Inquisitor,_

_Leliana got word to me through Felicity. I’ve sent word to my husband for good measure. I heard about Adamant Fortress. While I’m not a Warden any longer, you can count on my aid when I finally return to Ferelden. Maker willing, Alistair will heed reason. You might not need friends yet, but don’t grow complacent. The more power you amass, the more enemies you make._

_Yours,_

_Queen Brynn Cousland_

_Former Warden-Commander of Ferelden_

Tucking the letter aside in a locked box, Petrina committed those words to memory. They were true. She’d seen the same countless times in Ostwick. Power led to enemies. Her gaze trailed toward her balcony. Retrieving her wrapper and donning her slippers, she headed down and over the ramparts. She promised to tell him, after all.

He was still awake when she knocked. She was surprised that he answered, much less with those concerned golden-brown irises. His hair was mussed, the curls loose. She raised an eyebrow, hesitation rooting her feet in place. “Are you well?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, moving aside. “Come in.”

The office was lit with just two candles tonight, one of which was little more than a puddle of wax against its stick. His desk was swarmed with papers. “The reports say it all,” she supposed, turning as he approached, “about us entering the Fade.”

“Seeker Cassandra was rather evasive about it all,” he confessed, “and I’m more concerned about you.”

Petrina sank into the nearest chair. “There was a huge demon, a fear demon, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The spirit called it a nightmare. It taunted us all.” Her hands clasped together. “It knew a lot about us, including some of my more childish fears.” She clenched and unclenched her fingers. “I shouldn’t have let it affect me, but it started going on about Mother. Nothing I didn’t already know, but it still unsettled me.”

“Demons are hardly arbiters of truth,” Cullen scoffed.

“It was on _this_.”

“Whatever you think of her, I doubt she’d be so cruel as to hate you for what you can’t control,” he said, voice too soft.

“That’s _all_ the Chantry, or its Templars, or its Seekers, has ever done,” she replied. “Why wouldn’t my Chantry-abiding mother be the same?”

“You’re more than a mage,” Cullen said, “you’re her daughter.”

“It was stupid, and it shouldn’t have bothered me,” she went on, unwilling to tear her attention from her hands as heat flooded her cheeks. She’d suffered worse in her Harrowing. But something about that _thing_ , how easily it had seen through the walls she’d constructed, unsettled her.

“It’s not stupid, and you’re not the only one that’s ever…” A long sigh burst from him. Her eyes crawled back toward him. He was focused on something past the window overlooking Skyhold’s grounds. “In Ferelden, I was tortured when the Circle fell. They tried to break my mind, the blood mages and their demons. I was angry for years after that. The man I was in Kirkwall was bitter, furious, and saw mages as little more than beasts.”

She set her jaw as he faced her again. Reflected in that amber stare, she glimpsed a terrified young woman gazing out at placid lake waters in early summer. It would’ve been a painless death. The Harrowing had been a month earlier. Her smarts prevailed over her momentary despondence. “It was different,” she relented, “being there in the flesh. Seeing creatures with their faces, being unable to change them, having no choice but to kill them.” Her knuckles whitened as her hands tightened their grips against each other. “Mother. Harry. Not that _bastard_ Wendell, though.” _Say it. That’s not all of them, is it?_ She wished her tongue would stop heeding her thoughts. “Some of them looked like you. I know it’s foolish, as they _weren’t_ you, but…”

“It’s not foolish,” he cut in, “the demons that tortured me in Ferelden, they took Amell’s form.” Distance boiled in his expression.

Sympathy plumed in her. “I’m sorry.”

“It was ten years ago.”

“I still remember the first time Ser Wendell tried taking me,” she said, struggling to keep her words even, “that kind of thing never goes away. Not really.” Fear and panic, cloth rustling, a curse as metal glinted on her hand.

“I didn’t mean to remind you of him.”

“You don’t,” she assured him, rising to her feet. “Not anymore, at any rate.”

His head fell. “What is it like?” he asked as she swiveled toward the door. She halted, hand hovering over the door’s handle.

“What’s what like?”

“Being a mage,” he said, “beyond the Circle, I mean.”

She extended a hand, despising how it shook. “I’ll show you, if you want.” An invitation. Maker willing, this wouldn’t backfire _horribly_. _He was the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall._

Shock rippled through her as he moved closer, placed his hand in hers. He was warm, callused, strong. Gentle, she reached for his other hand, spreading them out beneath both of hers. Cupping her hands over his, she focused her energy. It was different from battle, the unending rhythm of combat. She reached for her strongest element. The first she’d known. Flame twisted to her will, swirling into an orange inferno that soon formed the smooth petals of a lily. He remained still against her, and she smirked at the awe she found in his stoic features.

“Magic is destructive, but it also is capable of great things,” she said.

“And when it fades?” he pressed, earnest in his curiosity.

She doused the blossom. From their contact, he’d felt the flare in her veins from the extinguishing. “It just vanishes, but the energy is spent.”

“I’m surprised your hands aren’t warmer, for all the time you spend with fire spells,” he added, withdrawing his hands.

“It’s not my fault Orlais is so damn cold,” she replied, though her cheeks were scalding against the laughter he emitted. It was at her expense, yet she didn’t mind.

“Have you never been to Orlais?” he asked.

“Not personally,” she said, pressing her hands against her underarms. The wrapper’s thick flannel was a weak consolation prize. “Until now, I mean. Our family had _some_ holiday estates in the Dales, but I think many of them were auctioned off during those few lean years before the rebellion.”

“What are lean years like for nobles?”

She shifted her legs, the gesture adding some warmth into her veins. “Depends on how bad it is. I didn’t get the full account. Cat told me a little. She and her ladies dismantled old gowns to sew new ones.”

“Somehow, I can’t quite picture you wearing gowns.”

“Gowns remind me too much of robes,” she conceded. Robes that made it easier for Templars to take what they wanted from mages. Once, she’d found great fun in flouncing about in layers of petticoats. Before she’d had to watch her back. Pants were easier to move in anyway.

At those words, Cullen paled. “Right, my apologies.”

“It’s alright,” she said. “Besides, I rather hate the notion of being an ornament on some lord’s arm.” She’d seen enough of that during all those balls she attended. Plenty of headstrong young women gave themselves away to noblemen that cared not a whit for them. Some were cruel. A few of Cat’s friends began wearing thick doses of white powder and rouge to conceal awful bruises once the honeymoon’s bliss wore off. Cat herself remained unbound, staunchly refusing marriage. That was one thing they’d never spoken of during any of her rare visits to the Circle or Petrina’s treks home.

Cullen moved back behind his desk, nodding. “Ten years ago, in Ferelden, that was about all a highborn woman could hope for.”

“I take it Queen Brynn Cousland changed things.”

“Times were changing even before the Blight, but I expect it helped. I wasn’t here for most of it, not really.”

_He served in the Circle._ “Of course.” Scratching the back of her neck, she cleared her throat. “Well, that was ten years ago anyway. It doesn’t much matter now, really.”

His head snapped toward her. For a moment, she feared she’d caused grave offense. Her throat ran dry until that scarred corner of his mouth tilted upward. “Don’t let any Fereldans hear you saying that.”

“Too late,” she said, winking as she headed back to her rooms. Cold slashed at her lungs as she emerged from his office. It took the ripple of gooseflesh along her arms and legs for her to realize just how fast her heart was beating at her ribs. Shame rose against the tide of giddiness surging through her, the blood rushing in her ears. It wasn’t possible. But he wasn’t like the others she’d known. He saw her as a person, not a weapon, not a prize.

_As if it will mean anything if Corypheus succeeds._ Migrating back into the castle, she squeaked as a pair of startling silver irises found hers in the darkness, caught beneath the glow of a candlestick. Rowan said not a word, though a question blistered there as he studied her. She forced out a breath. “Andraste’s blood,” she swore, “you scared the _shit_ out of me.”

“I was looking for you, but Leliana told me she saw you heading out toward the ramparts.”

Defiance streaked through her. “You’re not my keeper.”

“I know, but I can’t help wondering if this is a good idea. You and the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall.”

“It isn’t like that. We’re friends.” _I suppose._

“Everyone sees how he looks at you but deny it if you want.”

“Says the man batting his lashes at a _Tevinter_ mage.” The words burst forth without consideration. Instant regret hit her at the injury that flicked over his expression.

“Let’s not fight about this,” he urged, and she flinched at the sorrow in his tone. “I wanted to tell you that we have a prospective list of guests for this ball the empress is planning to end the Orlesian war.”

“You sound cheerful. Former flames?”

“No,” he said, stone-like, “ _Mother_ is going to be there with Cat. No doubt to try and marry her off. Elise is traveling, far from here, so quit frowning.”

Bann Trevelyan was attending an Orlesian ball. Assuming the Dales weren’t mired in bloodshed. “Wonderful.”

“Dorian also has something he needs resolved in the Hinterlands,” Rowan went on, soft and low, “so I won’t be able to go with you and the commander to the Dales.”

Quelling further arguments brewing at the tip of her tongue, she muttered her assent. She had no choice, really. Never had when it came to him. “Alright, be safe out there. Do you want me to send anyone with you?”

“There’s no need for that. It should be fairly calm out there.” Rowan donned a broad grin. “You killed all the blood mages and Templars, from what they tell me.”

Petrina elbowed him on her way past. She stepped on up to her rooms and fell into a dreamless slumber, not that she was complaining. When she woke, it was to the flutter of birds at her balcony. A note was perched on her balcony, held against the mortar with an arrow. She unfurled the message to reveal Sera’s cramped writing: VERCHIEL, NEED SOLDIERS. SOME TIT WITH HIS HEAD UP HIS ASS. JUST A SHOW, YEAH? Torching the paper, Petrina hoped Cullen would agree. There was another notification on the desk, requesting her presence in the war room once she woke.

Dressing, Petrina headed down into a quiet keep. Several masked Orlesian nobles scuttled away at her approach. Tantalizing as the scents were from the dining hall, she moved on ahead to the war room with just a pastry for sustenance. Cullen was there when she arrived, alongside Leliana. Josephine was busy, perhaps working out some more favors to try and secure that invite to the Winter Palace. “We need to turn our attention to the Dales,” Leliana greeted Petrina.

_Harry._ Rose quartz beads shimmered in the back of her memories, clasped tight in fervent hands. _“It’s beautiful, Sister, the Chant. It gives people hope,”_ he once said. She’d laughed at him.

_“Unless you’re a mage.”_

“Tell me when you want to head out,” Petrina said to Cullen, rapping her signet ring at the war table. Verchiel glared at her from the map’s worn confines. “And have a captain in Verchiel march her men through the streets. Sera’s request.”

“Inquisitor, you will need to be careful,” Leliana added.

_“Petra, will you ever see yourself as anything other than a mage?”_ Harry prodded against the stark shadows of summer in their family home’s parlor.

_“Will your precious Chantry? The Order?”_ Not the best response, so despondent, emotional, tired, _weak_.

“Ser Trevelyan might not be in his right state of mind…”

“He hasn’t been for some time.”

Leliana sighed, relinquishing the subject for now. Cullen agreed to the march in Verchiel. Petrina languished a moment in the war room once he stalked off to find a courier to deliver the orders. Leliana lingered. Silence spanned between them. Petrina half-feared when it broke. They were similar, in some ways. Broken faiths, uncertain values, uneven ground. “I heard about the Divine, or her spirit,” Leliana said, shattering the quiet. “I read the report. Did she say anything else?”

“No,” Petrina confessed, relieved that it was something she could answer. “Just that she was sorry, and she failed you too.”

“You remind me of Brynn sometimes, you know.”

Cotton clothing her mouth, Petrina sighed. “You don’t talk about her, not often.”

“There’s not much to tell. Headstrong, driven, albeit much more emotionally distant.”

_“What have you done with my sister? You weren’t like this before the Circle,”_ Harry had growled at her, knuckles whitening as his hands curled into fists. She’d smelled the blue on him that day. It was then that she learned to fear him.

“In the Circle, you learn not to show your emotions,” Petrina replied.

“Felicity Amell told me that love made the Circle bearable sometimes.”

Understanding daggered Petrina. _They were involved. Somehow. None of my business, really._ “She was in the Fereldan Circle, before it fell, before Kirkwall, and everything else.”

“It was just something to consider, Inquisitor.”

The hallway air was a balm to the fire scalding her veins. It was too close. The Circle was gone. Her family remained. Unlike Ollie and Lydia, countless others lost that day, Petrina’s family was bound to her by blood. For good or ill, she couldn’t lose them. _Even Harry._

That was a poor note to leave Skyhold on, but the thoughts wouldn’t leave her. She gathered Cassandra, Solas, and Varric for the march to the Plains. Cullen joined them as word came from Scout Harding that there was trouble in the Dales. Rebels from both sides of the Orlesian war, Free Men of the Dales. They didn’t want to fight, but they’d taken to banditry rather than fleeing. Petrina almost pitied them. She kept those thoughts to herself. Solas was in high spirits as they set out, and she found herself glad that she’d agreed to let him come along. He had an ulterior motive, that being a friend some mages had summoned out on the Exalted Plains. A _spirit_ because nothing was simple when it came to him.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra prodded once they neared the Plains, during one of many long treks on the winding road, “I just wanted you to know that I’m sure your mother is proud of you.”

Varric clicked his tongue. “Seeker, might want to leave that one alone.”

“We’ll see in Orlais, I suppose,” Petrina grunted, “she’s coming to the Winter Palace. If you’ve a mind, you should ask her how she reacted when she learned I was a mage.”

Pink dashed across Cassandra’s cheeks. “I… I suppose that would make things difficult.”

“Only because _she_ made them difficult.” Cullen remained silent, though Petrina swore his gaze kept sliding in her direction. She couldn’t read what was written there, but she hoped it wasn’t pity. Maker knew she’d gotten enough of that in Ostwick and Tevinter.

Conversations were awkward and tense with the Seeker after that, more so than usual. Reaching the Plains proved no less strenuous when Solas ran off, insisting that he had to tend to his friend. Petrina let him go, against Cassandra’s requests and Cullen’s quiet, curious looks. Neither of them trusted the apostate. _You doubt him._ It was different from outright suspecting the elf. He’d been nothing but helpful so far.

“And if he doesn’t come back?” Cassandra challenged that morning as they set out.

“We’ll make do,” Petrina said.

“That’s our Firestarter, using bullshit to inspire people,” Varric quipped.

Cassandra wasn’t laughing. “You trust him this much?”

“He saved my life. He’s never turned to blood magic or demons,” Petrina answered, choosing her words carefully.

“He _did_ surrender his staff to us on entering our camp, Seeker,” Cullen agreed.

Cassandra muttered something in Nevarran. “I just mean that you take a lot of risks, Inquisitor.”

“So do the rest of us,” Varric pointed out.

“They’re calculated,” Petrina assured her companions. They had to be. Mages were much too distrusted to do anything else. She couldn’t make the same mistakes she had in Ostwick. Stretching her arms high, she gestured to the vacant road ahead. “Scout Harding said both sides of the Orlesian war are overrun with corpses and demons. I suggest we get going.”

It was worse than Harding described. That first fort was teeming with corpses, the reek of blood and death. An Orlesian officer outside the walls told Petrina the rest of the area was endangered. Granted, he served a usurper, but that didn’t matter. She deigned against telling him she’d found pits full of corpses in the fort, pits she’d torched. He thanked her for ridding the fort of corpses, thumped a fist over his heart, praised the Maker and Andraste. Between that gesture and the nauseating reek of death on the wind, she struggled to keep her breakfast down.

“The _chosen_ ,” Varric teased once they continued down the road, mocking the officer’s Orlesian accent.

“It’s a wonder Mother’s alive, given the levels of blasphemy in _that_ belief,” Petrina shot back.

Varric beamed back at her. “You’d have _loved_ this guy I knew with white armor and a bow, tragic background. Always yawning on about the Chantry and forgiveness.”

“I _do_ like princes,” she slipped, desperate for _something_ to joke about.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “From what I’ve heard of Prince Sebastian, he takes his vow of chastity seriously.”

“Not for long, I’d wager,” Petrina said, unable to keep her smile back, “Starkhaven will want _heirs_ if he’s taken his kingdom back.”

Laughter burst from Varric. Cullen reddened. “Maker’s breath,” the former Templar swore.

“Firestarter! You’ve been holding out on me,” the dwarf accused.

Petrina’s response died beneath the wail of a terror demon. Cursing in Tevene, she unfurled her staff. A spectral blade materialized at the end of her staff as the demon surged toward her. At least the impending fight would be a good distraction from the walking corpses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the matter of Carver, now that I own both DLC's for that game... I always bump his friendship into the blue, even if it's not all the way (Feynriel, my boy, you have the Force, and I will help you). He's so much nicer as a Warden that's somewhat friendly. I just... can't handle being yelled at by a dude, and not in the way Fenris argues if you rivalmance him. I mean... straight up screeching about jokes you and Varric make in _Legacy_. To say nothing of being all snide about "upholding the tenets of the Order" in _Mark of the Assassin_. Though I do like how a Templar Carver does go all apologetic in The Last Straw. I'm the oldest. I hate whining younger siblings, even if I can understand where the resentment might come from. That's my personal bias, though. (I like Carver more than Bethany because he has a spine and his own ideas of things, how to hide, stay safe, etc. Bethany also is, in my opinion, too hard on herself and you can't talk her out of it. I like coffee, and other people like tea.)
> 
> Anyone else ever lose their shit and start crying, then feel like a weakling? Me. That was me. Most of it came from stress-filled breakdowns over grades because law school is Grad School: Hunger Games Edition, but I digress. I also have resolved my very first-world vacation problems. Hyped up and ready. It's gonna be amazin.


	21. Red in the Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dales are worse than anyone envisioned. Cullen and Cassandra fail miserably at dragon avoidance efforts. Petrina is lost in thought. Varric always has a spare deck of cards around. The Free Men are a pestilence that never quite go away. Red lyrium caravans reveal dark truths Cullen can't quite bring himself to accept about his former brother-in-arms Samson.

The Plains were awful. Cullen didn’t mind the dirt, but the unending tide of demons and corpses were exhausting. Petrina was relentless on her charge. She was quick, lethal. However, Adamant still wore on her. Sometimes, he caught her staring out at the sky once night fell and the others were long asleep, searching for Corypheus’s archdemon. Cullen never had the courage to approach her in those moments. Varric, on the other hand, had no problem approaching the mage, often with a deck of worn cards in hand. The dwarf worked a strange magic on her. She seemed to relax around him, smiling and joking over a game of cards as if they weren’t at war with an ancient evil capable of destroying all they cherished. “You should play with us,” Varric urged one evening as the group made camp near the Eastern Ramparts.

Clacking flint rocks against each other in a wan attempt to start a fire, Cullen snorted. “I don’t like gambling.”

“Curly, it’s not about the gambling.” Varric jutted his chin toward where Petrina stood, taking stock of their supplies. “I’m not sure how her kind do things, but I’m damn tired of all this beating around the bush with you two.”

Heat swelled in Cullen’s face, and he didn’t care then if he was beet red. “Don’t,” he ordered against the exposure torching his veins, “she has enough to worry about.” Brows diving, he clacked his flint rocks together, vainly seeking a spark.

“You’re a smart guy, Curly. Has it ever occurred to you that even our inquisitor needs a shoulder to lean on?” Varric asked with foreign severity. All traces of sarcasm were gone in those Marcher grey eyes of his.

Fire cracked against dry logs. Cullen leapt back, flint falling from his hands. Petrina sauntered past him. “You could’ve asked,” she said with a nod to the snapping flames. He allowed himself a grin at the taunt in her irises.

“Consider it,” Varric murmured on his path toward the ration packs. Past the dwarf was Seeker Cassandra, watching former Circle mage and Templar with something akin to dawning comprehension. Cold ran through Cullen as that Nevarran hazel glare fixed on him, accusation fervent as her faith. He focused instead on the mage that sat at his side.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two spend quality time together,” Petrina remarked, inclining to Varric’s retreating form.

“Apparently, I spend too much time with a serious expression on my face and it’s bad for my health,” Cullen deadpanned.

“ _You_ , serious? Perish the thought.”

Her knee jostled against his as she stretched out her legs. Breath catching at their closeness, he remained still. “We’ve talked a little since Kirkwall,” he forced out against the fog clotting his thoughts, “largely at _his_ insistence.”

“He has a way of doing that.”

“That he does.”

Silence stretched between them, but he didn’t mind. He found himself grateful for the thrum of breath rustling from her, the closeness of their forms. When he glanced down, he found her hand rattling against the log they were seated on. A bolder man might have reached for that hand, held it in wan reassurance. He had none to give, not tonight. Besides, they were far from alone, as Cassandra’s sidelong glowers reminded him.

The Nevarran waited until Petrina and Varric headed off to sleep to approach Cullen. He forced what he prayed was a neutral expression on his face as Cassandra’s imposing presence neared. Readying for a lecture, he tensed. “Look out for her, will you?” the Seeker asked in a low voice. “Maker knows she won’t listen to me.”

Puzzled, he shifted toward the warrior. “About what?”

“Everything,” Cassandra answered with a roll of her eyes, “not that I can blame her, entirely. She’s not wrong about the Chantry. It has to change.”

Yes, it _did_ need to change. The ignorance Chantry clerics shielded themselves in regarding the dire circumstances of the Circles, the Templars, that willful and blissful lack of information laid the foundation for the war. What amazed him was that the Chantry had the _gall_ to lay the blame for the war solely at the feet of the mages. They might have thrown the first punch, but the Chantry watched the torture of mages, fed Templars lyrium until they became wholly dependent on the stuff, and did nothing for either of them. “What are you suggesting?”

“Templars should be protectors of mages, not jailors. Mages should be allowed to govern themselves, with Chantry advice and input.”

“I didn’t know you cared about mages, Seeker,” Cullen admitted.

“The whole reason why I went to Kirkwall for Hawke was to try and stop the war before it got out of hand,” Cassandra retorted.

Those dark days nettled at the cusp of his thoughts, alongside his brief interactions with the Champion in Kirkwall. She wasn’t quite the hero he anticipated, all dry sarcasm and scathing, quiet anger. “You’ve met her. Do you really think she could’ve stopped that war?”

“Maybe,” Cassandra said, shrugging. Her forehead furrowed in consideration. “Though there is precious little she holds sacred, it seems. Maybe not.”

“She holds _nothing_ sacred,” he replied, a laugh morphing into a snort. He’d heard from Emeric about the investigations of the killer in Kirkwall. Hawke made some remark about the victims that offended the older Templar. _“If they’re_ not _dead, be on the lookout for a bunch of boneless women flopping through the streets.”_ Funny in retrospect, less so with a killer lurking in Low Town.

A roar broke through the night’s quiet. A shrieking, echo of a cry that reminded Cullen of the creature that traveled with Corypheus. Yet, it wasn’t _quite_ right. Cassandra’s shoulders fell. “Andraste, not _another_ one,” she hissed.

“Maybe she won’t notice,” Cullen supposed.

Cassandra threw him a withering look. The message was clear. Petrina Trevelyan could never ignore dragons. They were something of an obsession with her. He could only hope the dragon stayed a good distance from their group. When he laid down to rest that night, he dreamed of scaled, winged beasts that breathed fire. He woke to Cassandra shouting, and Petrina offering hasty reassurances.

“He just said he’d be back at Skyhold, Milady,” a timid Fereldan accent insisted.

“And _that_ is enough,” Petrina stipulated.

Emerging at last from his tent while readjusting his belt, Cullen found himself facing a fidgeting Inquisition battle mage, Petrina, and a livid Cassandra. “He should be out here helping us,” the former Seeker rebutted.

“I’ll see him back at Skyhold,” Petrina said to the mage, “send word, won’t you?”

The mage needed no further instruction. Off he went, rushing as if his life depended on it. Cassandra, fuming, rounded on the Inquisitor. “After what happened with that Templar in Haven, do you trust him?”

“ _Solas_ is not a Templar,” Petrina backlashed, “and has hurt no one that I’m aware of, to say nothing of him helping us, saving my life, saving us all by leading us to Skyhold.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Let’s just get going,” the mage recommended. Her eyes narrowed as they noticed Cullen. Mute, she glided past him to begin packing up their camp. They had to take the Eastern Ramparts today.

The fight for the Eastern Ramparts was quick and bloody. Burned flesh and death clung to the air when the pits, full to bursting with corpses, went up beneath a veil of mage fire. Petrina hovered near the pits, dire certainty carved into her features. “Someone did this deliberately,” she huffed out, her eyes diamond-like beneath the fire and sunlight as they rotated toward him.

_Blood magic._ Disgust gripped him, alongside the old fears from Ferelden and Kirkwall. He readied his response right as a burst of ice tore past his ear. A masked man, all in white, surged past the former Templar. Petrina charged after the mage, charging a spectral blade through his back before he could emit more spells. One riffle through his pockets revealed him to be the source of the walking dead and the demons. An Orlesian collaborating with the Venatori. Varric found the idea hilarious. “I thought Tevinter and Orlais were old enemies, always trying to outdo the other in style, religion, magic… bad art,” the dwarf confessed as he shouldered Bianca.

Petrina tossed the mage’s body in with the corpses he’d desiccated, lips forming a firm line. “We need to take out the rest of these pits,” she ordered.

In the coming days, Petrina led them through the Plains in a torrent of fire and steel. They cleaved through corpses and demons toward Orlesian soldiers barricaded past high walls either through the work of demons or their own foolishness. In one case, a fort across the river had been cut off by a break in the bridge. Some Inquisition scouts slapped planks over the gap, holding them in place with large rocks. That fort was the worst of the bunch, it turned out. Fighting past a tide of corpses, burning two more pits of dead bodies bearing Empress Celene’s deep blue and white colors, the Inquisitor and her party faced the fort’s entrance as sunset tinted the world in crimson light. That wasn’t the end of the battle, of course. A massive, armored figure tore out of the darkness once the small party neared the fort’s entrance.

“Revenant,” Petrina growled as she showered the creature in mage fire. Corpses possessed by pride or desire demons. Though Revenants were strong, they could be killed, and this one wasn’t an exception. Once it was down, the group moved into the fort and the Orlesians within all but kissed the ground upon which Petrina stood.

“ _Chosen_ ,” Varric mouthed at her when one started reciting the Chant.

Though it was meant as a joke, a slight wince passed through her at those words. She fled with a few direct words about the status of the Orlesian forces on the Plains. Without taking sides, as Josephine asked, they’d helped both the Empire and the usurper out of dire straits. Cullen had high hopes that their encounters on the Plains would end on that note. Instead, right as night was darkening the skies above, a dragon’s cry pierced the heavens. Petrina lit up, insisting on chasing the sound. To Cullen’s dismay, the call came from a desolate marsh deep in the Plains. A passage their soldiers had cleared out for _some_ reason. They’d erected tents and a small fire near the cleared opening. The group drove past the Inquisition encampment.

Stale water and mud swelled against their calves as they pushed in. Varric seemed _really_ discontented, as the muck swelled almost to his waist. Petrina pressed a finger to her lips as a shadow fell over them. Purple scales glinted in the wan moonlight, alongside a flash of white and black striping. Awe reverberated through her features, shattering her stone-like discipline. “Gamordan Stormrider,” she decreed, “I saw red in the eyes.”

“Great, now we know what it is, and we can all go off to the Graves,” Varric said.

“We can’t leave it here. Those troops are food for her. She’ll be wanting to breed. They love marshes and swamps,” she objected.

Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose. “Inquisitor, I’m not sure…”

A shriek hit the air. The beast circled them a moment, and Cullen realized Petrina was right. The eyes were a distinct, scalding red, reminding him of red lyrium. The beast landed on a muddy bank just ahead, head falling back. Purple and white electricity sizzled against its maw. Petrina emitted a curse in Tevene before adding in Common, “OUT OF THE WATER, NOW!” Cullen ran for the bank, and Varric somersaulted through the waters. Cassandra was already on land, charging the creature. Lightning burst from the dragon, and the water behind them crackled with energy. Petrina materialized behind the creature. “Same routine as with the Frostback!” she cried. “Legs first, then get its head!”

“And try not to get eaten!” Varric added as the dragon snapped at Cassandra’s spiked shield.

Cullen pushed back his beckoning urge to flee. Petrina was a whirlwind around him. One moment, she was at his side, burying the hilt of a spectral halberd in the creature’s thigh, and the next she was off at a distance tossing fireballs. It wasn’t long before blood ran from one of the dragon’s legs. They were methodical, moving along at her orders. She was fearless, even though this creature could’ve eaten them all in one go. More than anything, what Cullen would remember in the days to come was the delight on her face as the dragon at last went limp beneath Cassandra’s blade. Petrina, breathless and flushed against impending moonlight, broke into a wide grin. “Nice work,” she said.

Cassandra clapped the younger woman’s shoulder. “You are going to be the death of me.”

“Better me than the dragon,” the mage said.

“Firestarter,” Varric said, swatting grime from his sleeve, “you are one of the craziest mages I’ve ever met.”

“You forget that I’ve _read_ _The Tale of the Champion_ ,” she rebutted.

Varric bellowed with laughter. Relieved the dragon was dead and that they were alive, Cullen let himself enjoy the momentary reprieve from their unending obligations. He had a sinking sense that their good mood was about to end. They passed on into the Emerald Graves, past burning fields and houses, the hollow-eyed stares of Orlesian refugees. Golden wheat fields yielded to lush green jungle. Broken farms became vast estates of blue and white plaster bearing shattered windows and desolate gates.

Scout Harding met the group at the main camp. “The Free Men are operating here,” the dwarven archer informed Petrina and the others. “And a contact of the ambassador’s named Fairbanks has information on them you might find useful, even if you are here for the red Templars. Agent Lavellan says he won’t speak to anyone but _you_ , Inquisitor.”

“Fantastic,” Petrina deadpanned.

“That’s fame for you,” Varric chirped. “Just ask Hawke.”

Somehow, Cullen doubted Petrina liked all the attention. Therein lay a key difference, he supposed. Hawke needed to gain a name to protect herself in the city of chains. The other differences were more than apparent, starting with how striking of a profile Petrina cut in comparison to Hawke. Cullen tried to quell that notion, but it was impossible to ignore against the rich colors and dappled shade of the Graves. He feigned interest in the flora whenever she caught him admiring her profile. The surrounding green softened her harshness, made her radiant, ethereal. Apart from Amell, a foolish crush from years ago, he’d never known another woman that could draw his attention in this way. There had been brief flings to forget his Templar duties and the chaos building around him in Kirkwall. It was nothing like the yearning that seized him whenever Petrina neared. He was ashamed and saddened by it, because of course he had fallen for the one woman he couldn’t have: the Inquisitor. The skirmishes with the Free Men proved a decent distraction, at least.

The group made it a short while from the camp before encountering anyone in the wilds, save a sprinkling of masked men and women shouting about freedom. “They could’ve just deserted,” Petrina grunted as the last of their Free Men assailants fell.

“You’re telling me,” Varric said.

“Orlesians are _never_ simple,” Cassandra sighed.

“She’s right on that much,” Cullen piped up.

“You’d be surprised at how simple they can be,” Petrina confessed as they moved down into the canyon where Fairbanks was hiding. Several archers were posted at the canyon’s entrance. They cast suspicious, exacting glances over each of her companions.

Cullen couldn’t help a flare of pity as he glimpsed the camp beyond the guards. Ramshackle wooden shelters and tents adorned the canyon. A waterfall gushed at the far end of the camp, skimming the remnants of an elvish statue of a wolf. Fairbanks was dressed nicer than the rest of the refugees, barely, in a suit of deep brown slashed with green velvet. Dark-haired and swarthy, he stepped toward Petrina with a crisp Orlesian greeting. She cut him off with a pert, “I’m told you have news of these Free Men of the Dales.”

“To business, then,” Fairbanks said in Common. All traces of cheerfulness evaporated then. “These Free Men are collaborating with the red Templars. I’ve lost too many trying to take them on. We just want safety and peace, but our numbers and skills are lacking against theirs.”

“I’ll take care of them.”

Fairbanks gestured to an adjacent table smothered in papers. Cullen migrated toward the papers, running through the names listed there. A Chantry sister who turned from her duties. A disgraced chevalier. Rumors of a bloodthirsty thug at one of the large estates, alongside a large contingent of red Templars and red lyrium caravans. _Samson._ Petrina set to work copying the information to her waterlogged and worn map. “Looks like we’re getting the grand tour today,” she mused.

“I can’t understand why they’d work with the red Templars,” Cullen admitted. No one could’ve been that desperate.

“Everyone thinks Templars are heroes. When you’ve never been beaten by one, I suppose they must look different,” she said. Her hand trembled against the piece of charcoal she held to mark her map.

Against his better judgment, he placed his hand over hers, squeezing. She stiffened, and the glance she threw him was brimming with trepidation, doubt. He forced his mouth into a smile, tepid though he knew it to be. “We’ll find him, Petrina. You have my word.”

“Yes,” she agreed, listless, “probably cozying up to Samson.”

“Don’t give up yet,” he urged, hand falling to his side.

“I have no choice anyway,” she said, pocketing her map with one final sweep of her charcoal stick. Leaving the writing utensil, she waved to Varric and Cassandra.

Off they went into the jungle. Colorful birds fluttered in the interlocking tree branches above the group, emitting shrill calls to each other. Long-legged roan rams jaunted between the greenery. Varric was downright miserable. He shuddered as a ram darted past him. “ _Nature_ ,” he grumbled.

“It’s not so bad,” Petrina tossed back.

“It’s _awful_.”

Cassandra emitted one of her signature snorts. “You hate the outdoors and caves. It’s a wonder you were of any use at all to Hawke in Kirkwall.”

Varric thumbed at his jaw. “At least _she_ was interesting, Seeker.”

Another disgusted sound trailed from Cassandra, somewhere between a grunt and a scoff. An arrow whistled past them, lodging itself firmly in a tree’s moss-laden trunk. Petrina crouched, squinting through the tangled branches and vines. Cullen scanned the area ahead. The trees thinned beyond their path, yawning toward a vacant stretch of road that led to a cavern now flocked with figures clad head to toe in gilded steel plate. Orlesian soldiers, or what had once been Orlesian soldiers. _Deserters._ “The mine,” Petrina supposed, “where that Chantry sister is hiding out.”

“Let’s go get her, then,” Cassandra snarled.

Varric loaded a bolt in Bianca. Slow, they crept forward. As the archers were within sight, Petrina unleashed a fistful of fire on them. Varric rained bolts down on the encroaching, but light-armored swordsmen and women. An enraged shout tore from somewhere behind them. Cullen rounded and brought up his shield, catching the full blow of a heavily armored figure. Stars danced behind his lids as the figure slammed into him, all metal and muscle. A choked gasp tore from his attacker. Green glinted as a spectral blade tore from beneath the soldier’s helm. Down the soldier went, blood dribbling down her breastplate. Petrina stepped past the soldier, fire spouting from her hand toward a crowd rushing from the cavern. Cullen nodded his thanks as he resumed cutting past the new assailants.

As the last of the newcomers dropped, Petrina inched into the cavern. Veridium crystals gleamed against the walls. Past the threshold, all was silent. Until a hulking woman garbed head to toe in ornate Orlesian armor materialized. “The Free Men of the Dales will rule!” she thundered, rapping her blade at her ludicrous shield bedecked in the sculpture of a lion’s head.

“I’ll never understand Orlesians,” Varric decided as he somersaulted backwards, bolts punching through the air in his wake.

Cullen agreed with that sentiment as the sister charged him. He held his ground as her weight collided with him. Cassandra slammed her shield into the warrior’s side, knocking the sister off her feet. Right onto a mesh of glowing orange markings. Flame burst as the sister dropped. She _wailed_ as mage fire seized a lock of her hair. The rest was mercifully swift, as Cassandra plunged the final blow through the warrior’s heart. Cullen set to work next on surveying the little camp. Petrina freed some men and women caged near the back of the mine, Fairbanks’ people. There was a single red lyrium crystal that Cassandra shattered, but nothing more. “Fairbanks said they were connected with the red Templars,” Cullen said as he began scouring the papers the sister had left behind. “I don’t see any proof.”

Petrina snatched one of the papers from his riffling. “They’re meeting at an estate not far from Argon’s Lodge,” she informed him, thrusting the paper toward him. “And _that_ is where we’ll find this chevalier Fairbanks’ notes mentioned.”

Argon’s Lodge wasn’t far from the mine, set up right over a main road. Or what had been one, at any rate. It was hard to discern roads from paths made by grazing animals. Yet, fighting the Free Men proved a welcome distraction from the tragedy that had seeped into every part of the earth here. Massive stone statues marked the locations of key sites in the Second Exalted March, each one of an armored woman thrusting a sword skyward. After defeating the chevalier at Argon’s Lodge, those statues multiplied, and all traces of civilization evaporated at their backs. Red lyrium cracked on the air. “Maybe it’s a good thing Chuckles isn’t here with us,” Varric said, referencing Solas. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to take all of this Exalted March stuff well.”

“They thought it was necessary,” Cassandra intoned, “although I admit that it was an extreme response.”

“I’d go with barbaric,” Petrina clipped, “it’s more fitting for what was, essentially, an ethnic cleansing.”

Cullen winced, for he recognized the truth in those words. Biased as the history texts he read in training were, he saw the sugar coating even then as a devout student. The Chantry didn’t teach anything in which it wasn’t a hero, the arbiter of justice and morality. “Don’t say that too loudly, Firestarter, I hear you’re a holy icon now,” Varric teased.

Red lyrium was high on the air. Petrina halted in her tracks, raising a pair of fingers. Through the green, Cullen glimpsed the first echoes of unnatural crimson since the veridium mine. Red Templars lay just ahead, half of them twice the size of ordinary men and women. The rest were beasts of mottled skin and crystal. “Here we go,” she hissed, pelting them in fire. The fleshy creatures went down beneath her blast.

The larger ones, Cullen soon discovered, were heartier. He and Cassandra worked away at what had once been knights of the Order. It was a sickening prospect, knowing that men and women lay beneath all that crystal and lyrium-laced steel. Yet, Cullen killed them, as he had to, all the while hoping none of them were people he’d known.

The Templars were guarding a caravan of red lyrium crystals, and a rummage through some of their personal effects yielded letters from Samson. The lyrium wasn’t coming from the Deep Roads. No surprise there, but Samson was ordering droves of it. They needed more information. Other caravans lay beyond this one, each one more heavily guarded than the last. The last was in a nest of giants, though the giants were busy with the red Templars. Petrina snatched a cluster of papers from the back of a red Templar wagon before whistling to the others to follow her between the lumbering steps of a grey monstrosity. They ran from the giants, and not a look was spared on the papers she’d pilfered until they were on the road again. Scouring the letters revealed them to be in Samson’s harried hand, each one mentioning red lyrium deep in the Dales, out in the Emprise.

“As far as I knew,” Varric huffed, “the only red lyrium in Thedas was in that thaig Hawke and I found.”

“In that future,” Petrina said, eyes rising toward Cullen’s, “you told me red lyrium was like a parasite. That the longer someone is near it, eventually they become it.”

His throat shrank, digesting her words. Samson had been a fool, but he’d been _kind_ back then, toward the mages, in a misguided way. The notion of him growing red lyrium from _people_ was a horrifying prospect. “Let’s hope you’re wrong,” Cullen said.

“Firestarter’s got a good hunch when it comes to these things,” Varric confessed, “I’ll eat my crossbow if she’s wrong on this.”

“For _now_ ,” Cassandra urged, “we need to deal with these Free Men.”

That settled the matter for now. Onward they went, toward a vast flock of robin’s egg blue plaster and white marble deep in the Graves. One of the many Orlesian estates out here, and this one too had been plundered, given the loose black brass gates and the odd quiet that dipped into the air. A savage shout was all the warning they had before a massive war hammer came crashing toward them. Everyone scrambled out of the way, turning in time to glimpse their assailant, a brutish man garbed head to toe in black steel. He put up more of a fight than the Chantry sister and her zealots. One of his swings caught Varric off-guard, sending the dwarf to the ground. Cullen swept in, bracing against his shield as the blow crashed down. Pain rattled up his arm. Petrina helped the dwarf to his feet before yanking her hand high. Power blistered on the air, strange and new, different from her fire. When Cullen’s focus returned to the hulking Orlesian, he was garbed in an odd white glow, his movements sluggish. Understanding dawned on Cullen. He took advantage of the opening, shoving his shield hard into the man’s helmet before digging a sword blade deep under that helm. The Orlesian slumped against white steel, lifeless. Shrugging the corpse from his weapon, Cullen swiped a hand across his forehead.

Petrina whistled through her teeth as more Free Men tore from the shadows. A trick she’d gleaned from Sera, he supposed. Cassandra headed for the toughest and biggest of the attackers. Cullen took the right flank. Petrina and Varric were a force at range, fire and crossbow bolts taking out unwieldy rogues and archers from a distance. The battle was over too soon, and Cullen’s hands shook as he cleaned the gore from his blade.

One of the corpses had a key on it that Varric pilfered with no qualms. The key opened a gate at the far end of the garden, leading toward the main entrance of the estate. Petrina frowned as she regarded the entrance, doused in the dappled shadows of a trellis archway bedecked in browning roses. Cullen found his hand reaching for hers as they approached, and he was surprised that she let him give hers a reassuring grasp. She threw him a grateful smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes or that stubborn furrow between her brows. Into the estate they went, and the inside was far worse than the exterior.

Drapes had been torn clean from tall windows, and the gilded frames on the walls were bare. Boxes and drawers lay upset in the halls, their contents long gone. The rooms were mired in chaos, books tossed to the ground alongside bedsheets and portraits of silk-clad strangers. Free Men were about, though they were easy enough to dispatch without raising any alarms. As the mansion’s cloistered halls yielded to the courtyard’s open air, a pall settled over the group. Red lyrium sang on the air. Free Men rushed to greet the intruders, as did men and women in breastplates bearing the engravings of flaming swords. Their eyes were a hellish scarlet beneath hoods and helms. They weren’t themselves. It made things no easier.

In between the Templars and garish Free Men, Cullen glimpsed flashes of yellow satin, daggers. Petrina fade-stepped past him in a blur of blue and black, spinning on her heel as that yellow satin wove toward her. Her spirit halberd found its way to the figure’s heart. A man, lean as a starving dog, went down beneath the blow. As the last of the Free Men and red Templars fell, Cassandra nudged the rogue’s corpse with her foot. “I’m guessing that was the man in charge.”

“Yes,” Petrina agreed, “we’ve broken their hold here…” She tensed. Cullen caught the reek of red lyrium as she raised her staff, rounding a fraction too late. A wet gasp tore from her as the creature materialized, digging blade-like arms into her back. She went to her knees, coughing blood down her front. He lurched toward her as Cassandra charged the odd red lyrium beast, her blade cleaving its head off.

“Hang on, Firestarter,” Varric called. Glass clinked.

Cullen rushed to Petrina’s side, taking her in his arms as her breaths stuttered from her in uneven gasps. Varric was there in an instant, a pink bottle outstretched, uncorked. Gentle, Cullen guided it toward the mage’s lips. She drank with a hiss and jerk of agony as the concoction worked its way through her wounds. Cassandra was praying at a distance. Cullen tossed the empty bottle to the ground as Petrina’s lids fluttered, a cry tearing from her. “Andraste’s blood,” she swore, her back arching, “that stings!”

“Better that you feel pain than nothing at all,” Varric replied.

Too relieved to speak, Cullen clasped her hands tight in his. Her gaze slid to his, and his mouth ran dry. He became aware of their proximity, the thrum of her breath against his arms, the warmth of her body. With a hasty apology, he helped her to her feet. Whisking a handkerchief from her pocket, she scrubbed the blood from her chin. She wanted to continue into the estate. Cassandra insisted on a change of clothes and mending the damage to the mage’s jerkin first. Cullen and Varric stepped aside as the women set to work changing Petrina’s tunic and stitching up the slits in her jerkin.

While they worked, Cullen studied the corpse of their odd assailant. Once, it had been a Templar, one of the roguish charmers that haunted Chantry halls and sometimes the Circle. A mage-hunter. The kind tasked with bringing in apostates or escapees of the Circle. Often, hunters ended up killing mages they sought. He’d given orders to most of the hunters in Kirkwall, back when Hawke’s apostasy was a dark rumor he didn’t put much stock in. All those hunters came back empty-handed, likely paid off. Maybe that was a good thing. They were ruthless and determined types. Their red counterparts were wild animals, or close to it. “Like shadows,” Varric hummed at Cullen’s side, kicking lightly at the creature’s corpse.

_Red Templar shadows._ A sensible label. If only for how easy they were to overlook. “It was a person once,” he ground out instead.

“Yeah,” Varric said with a sage nod. “I’m sorry, Curly.” An apology, but not for this.

A swift glance toward the women, and Cullen’s dour mood dissipated. Though pale, Petrina had a dry grin on her lips at something Cassandra had said. Terrible as the war had been with the mages, Cullen didn’t regret where the conflict had led him. “We’re changing Thedas,” he said to the dwarf, “hopefully for the better this time.”

“And _she_ is changing you. Hopefully, for the better this time,” Varric replied.

_It won’t happen_ , Cullen’s thoughts sneered. His sense answered an unassuming, _And that’s alright._ An exasperated huff trailed toward the men, and his attention found the women again as Cassandra gave an exasperated eye roll no adolescent could’ve matched. “You are _impossible_ ,” the former Seeker griped to the mage.

Petrina pealed with laughter, a beautiful sound Cullen would take any day over bloodied gasps for life. As she shrugged on her mended jerkin, she yelled to him and Varric that they had to find out why the red Templars had come. More cautious than earlier, the group pushed forward.

Beyond the courtyard was a room guarded by a rune-coated key, full to bursting with red lyrium and papers detailing transactions with the red Templars. Petrina took the papers. Fairbanks would want them. Cullen noted the disappointment in her tone. She’d expected to find her brother here. He had too, if he was honest. But the caravans were coming from the Emprise. That had to be where the rest of the Templars made their home.

A screech pulsed on the wind as they emerged from the estate. Blue-green scales glinted past the trees. Petrina perked up. “Greater Mistral,” she said, “frost-based.”

“It’s creepy how you do that,” Varric groused.

Cassandra pulled her blade free from its scabbard. Cullen found himself unable to do anything other than agree to the battle. Besides, fire was good against frost. His instincts were right, it turned out. The dragon went down easily with Petrina’s fire spells. It was a beautiful creature, and he felt a pang at having to kill it. “The frost-based ones have such pretty colors,” Petrina admitted, noticing his staring. “It’s a shame that they’re so dangerous.” She placed a marker near the carcass, an Inquisition pennant to signal scouts.

“Yes,” Cullen found himself saying, “that it is.”

The remainder of the trek to Fairbanks’ people was uneventful. He was grateful, told the Inquisition that they’d find him and his people at Argon’s Lodge. With Fairbanks’ alliance secured, Petrina sent word to Josephine before the group moved on. Night beckoned in the skies streaking past the tree branches, forcing the Inquisition to seek shelter. There was another estate, a massive chateau large enough to house much of Denerim, on the road out. It was there that they decided to rest, despite the cloying static of magic on the air. Petrina vowed to stand watch, and Cullen ardently refused to let her do so alone. For a fraction in time, he feared their old rivalry was raising its familiar head as he caught the fire glistening in her gaze, but then she offered a subtle inclination of her chin and it was done.

That night was solemn at first, nothing but the odd shift of painted wood and the crack of fire in a hearth unused to activity. Then, he caught it, the slight shuffle of bare feet on stone, a scrape of rusted metal on marble, an eerie and unnatural groan. Petrina stood with him, and together they moved from the parlor the others had claimed as shelter. A curse spouted from Cullen as she sent forth an orb of white light into the black. Against the magic’s glow, shambling in desolate corridors, were corpses, hundreds of them, all walking to the unseen rhythm of the spirits that had taken control. She moved with that signature and effortless grace, showering them in fire. They died in silence. Cursing their luck, Cullen supposed they now had to find out what had caused this. Mute, he trailed her path through the hushed and empty corridors. Upstairs was a library, larger than the one in the Fereldan Circle in Kinloch. Each section was accented in marble pillars trimmed with gilt, a skylight overhead letting moonlight seep into the area. The shelves were stacked top to bottom in thick tomes, a feast for any reader. That was his thought, until Petrina plucked one of the volumes free and promptly threw it down in disgust. One glimpse of the title supplied his questions with the answers they craved: _Magic, a Guide to Curing It._ He staunched the apology budding at the tip of his tongue.

“It’s nothing but superstition,” he offered.

“That doesn’t make it any less dangerous or harmful to a child,” Petrina objected, fury lacing her words. The fury she’d borne for all those years in the Circle, a fury he couldn’t begrudge her. Not when he’d stood by and defended a tyrant in Kirkwall. She threw a venomous glare on the adjacent statue of Andraste, delicate and devout with her head turned to the glass skylight.

Cullen knew how it was going to end as they cleaved through seas of corpses. In the courtyard was the source, a robed, skeletal figure he knew as an arcane horror. This one wasn’t as powerful as others of its kind, and he supposed that was due to the source being a child or the possessing demon being weaker than most. Petrina washed the thing in flame, and as it died, the magic around the chateau broke. The air went listless again. She lingered over the horror’s corpse as it dissolved to black-green shards, and at length said, “I had an apprentice in Ostwick. Ginevra Dalton. Brilliant girl, but reckless. She was nine when they brought her in. I was nineteen when I was assigned her mentor. She wanted to visit the dog at her family home, since she’d learned it had grown sad in her absence. So, she snuck out one night, and the Templars dragged her back in the next morning, threatening her.” Petrina’s hands curled into fists. “I stood up for her. Ten lashes. That was the punishment.”

He almost didn’t want to ask, but the question was a natural consequence. “What happened to her?”

“She was transferred to Starkhaven. The Templars were nicer there, I hear. She wrote me once, but then Kirkwall blew up.”

It was an argument he’d often invoked when Hawke trudged through the Gallows on some menial task for Meredith. _“What if a child gets possessed?”_ Yet, cutting a child down seemed no better than making one Tranquil. Given rumors that the Rite could be reversed, he had hopes that children wouldn’t need to fear possession much longer. _She doesn’t want a lecture._

“I’m not fond of children, but she was smarter than many her age. Quiet, but wily and bright when given a chance,” Petrina went on. “I suppose this just reminded me, that’s all.”

_I understand._ More than anyone in the Inquisition, he understood. The past was a difficult ghost to shed. Regret, clotted in even the brightest of those memories, and sometimes it seemed that all he knew of his past was guilt, shame, and that bone-deep regret. The anger branding Felicity’s expression as he spouted nonsense to the Knight-Commander. All that fear and blood in Kirkwall. The raw, palpable rage that Petrina exuded in their earliest days in Haven, unending ammunition against him.

Not a word was spoken as they padded back toward the others. Cassandra was seated near the fire when the pair returned, suspicion hard as flint in her stare. Petrina didn’t notice, or maybe she was used to the hawkish former Seeker. Cullen wasn’t used to _this_ change in temper. Once the mage had sauntered off to one of the adjoining areas for a rest, Cassandra pushed out a nasal exhale. “You might be grown adults and capable of making your own choices but try and have _some_ discretion.”

Face simmering at those words, Cullen hung his head like a scolded child. “It’s not what you think,” he relented, “she tolerates me, but I doubt she’ll ever… not with _me_. You know the things that happened in Kirkwall.”

“I do,” Cassandra agreed, “and you had no choice in obeying Knight-Commander Meredith’s orders. You were her subordinate. But my point was that the ambassador says reputation is important, especially for _her_ …”

“You can relax, that didn’t happen.” _It won’t happen anyway._

Cassandra flapped her wrist. “I could care less, but our ambassador insists that the matter is _paramount_ for the Inquisition.”

Cullen knew that. He’d had many tired arguments with Josephine about such things. Most revolved around the impending ball Empress Celene was hosting. Wearing red feathers would be in poor taste, apparently. Naturally, that was what he dreamed of when he laid down that night for a moment’s slumber. Red feathers and jeweled masks. When he woke, it was to light streaking through towering windows, and the weight of his nullifying ring from its cord around his neck. There was a quick breakfast in the parlor before marching on toward the Emprise.

The Graves were a monument to false notions of Chantry superiority. Every inch of their brutal violence toward the elves was marked in the lush forest. The Plains had been similar, a hollowed shell studded with forts, trenches, and pocketed with Andrastian statues. Neither came close to the Emprise. A chill sliced at the air as they moved further from the jungle, snow and alpine forest replacing lush greenery. Sometimes, he caught Petrina burrowing deep in her cloak, cheeks flushed and irises simmering in silent resentment at his comfort with the cold. He chanced it one night, offering her his mantle, insisting the fur was thick and warm enough for her to stave off the cold. With chattering teeth, she fisted gloved hands against her cloak and remained seated on her stump near the fire. He didn’t make the offer again, not that he needed to, as they reached the main Inquisition encampment soon enough.

Scout Harding’s news was grimmer than usual. Fade rifts and red Templars had penned in what was left of the village Sahrnia. The red lyrium was coming from here, likely the great quarry the Templars had occupied. Once that news hit his ears, dread slithered through his veins. Varric said Petrina’s instincts were often right. Nonetheless, Cullen muttered a prayer to the white skies and hoped that this time she was wrong. The notion of his former comrade making red lyrium from people was nightmarish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, red Templar shadows always down Petrina at least once, wherever they're at (I always lose track of them). Samson, you tried to help people, even if you were misguided. I know he's not as interesting as Calpernia, who does seem more three-dimensional based on what my sister has told me. I just can't bring myself to side against the mages, even if you can disband the Order at the end of the Templar quest. /Shrugs. That's why we have Wiki pages anyway. I know these last two chapters are kind of slow, but they are necessary for the next one... which... is gonna be kind of intense. *Cue wicked laugh track* Also, everything said about the Circles beyond Ostwick, take it with a grain of salt. The grass is always greener from wherever you're at. Petrina's perception of things is colored by her experiences... felt I should say that since the age-old "Ferelden didn't have a good Circle" thing popped up in my Tumblr feed again. (Alongside the "mage/Templar pairings are abuse" shtick, which... nope, not going there.)


	22. The Other Half

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Emprise is worse than Petrina envisioned, a nightmare of snow specked in glaring red lyrium spires and vicious Templars under its thrall. Suledin Keep and the quarry it stands sentinel over may hold answers regarding Samson's supply of red lyrium. An old adversary lurks nearby, and Petrina finds herself facing a difficult truth.

Red Templars were everywhere in the Emprise, a stark contrast to the desolate town of Sahrnia. Mistress Poulin, the mayor of Sahrnia, insisted the red Templars had taken villagers to the quarry as labor before making them prisoners. Indeed, the Red Templars had even taken the huge fort near Judicael’s Crossing, Suledin Keep. At the behest of a desire demon, no less. Petrina concluded she hated the place the moment she led her little group out of town, up toward the first red Templar encampment. Spiced crimson clotted the air, making it hard to breathe. Her head was pounding by the time the battles were done. Yet, she had time to put down an Inquisition marker before they moved onto the next one. This was familiar, searing as the red lyrium was on her. Against the bone-piercing cold, she noticed too that the red spires emanated an eerie warmth. Given its effect on her, she deigned against straying close to the stuff. Varric grunted that he’d “rather be cold than touch that stuff.” She agreed.

Worse than the cold were the things she glimpsed on taking the Templar camp over the Quarry. Deep in the quarry, red Templars had caged villagers and were using them as miners, until the infection spread to them. It was nauseating. She’d promised Cullen she was right on this, but somehow that brought her no consolation. The despondence in his features as he drank in each mining site stirred something in her. She found herself reaching for his hand, but rarely did she actually take it. A part of her was frightened, she knew, not of him, but of this _thing_ between them. It was too much like _him_ , and Maker knew how that ended. Disastrously, as with so much of her life.

What she found herself waiting for now, with each inch of the quarry they stampeded through, was for her brother’s war cry, a gleam of that flaming sword against Tantervale blue and gold or Ostwick gold and green. Maker, she couldn’t recall if he could wear Ostwick colors in the Circle. There was so much she didn’t know about him, had never bothered to learn. It was an odd thing, mourning a man that still lived. Yet, the thoughts drowned out all reason with each Templar cage lock Varric broke and the shatter of those red lyrium spires beneath Cassandra’s shield. Sometimes, alongside the scalding headache, Petrina had to step outside to regain breath. She’d never liked Harry, and he’d disliked her the moment she started mouthing off about the Chantry. Theirs was a rivalry unmatched even by Gregory and Cat with their incessant squabbling.

Once the quarry was cleared, Petrina set to work scouring the papers left behind. She gathered some letters from Samson and Mistress Poulin. Wonder of wonders that Mistress Poulin, as with the mayor in Crestwood, had sold her people out. In this case, to the red Templars, and ironically it was so that those left in the town could survive. A contradictory justification. Compared to the mess that was the Sahrnia Quarry, Petrina wagered Suledin Keep and the desire demon it held would be almost a comfort.

Cullen sat away from the others that night they camped just past the fort’s gates. Petrina languished a minute near the fire’s pitiful warmth before forcing herself toward him. He’d known Samson. This knowledge was, doubtless, a blow. She trekked toward the former Templar, magic weaving warmth through her chilled hands. “Making red lyrium from people,” Cullen intoned as she neared, “it’s _monstrous_. I can’t imagine Samson would stoop to such a low.”

“We stopped him,” she said. The uninfected survivors were headed back to Sahrnia, the red Templar lieutenants all dead.

“I don’t understand it.”

“We’ll find him, even if he has moved on from here. He can’t have gone far,” Petrina went on. There were only _so_ many places a man infected with red lyrium could hide.

“I expect those papers will lead us right to him. I’ll need time when we return to Skyhold,” Cullen said, “to investigate.”

“I’ll help you,” she assured him. This was _her_ mess too, after all. Maker knew she didn’t want that darkspawn retaining a general as efficient as Samson.

“You should get some rest,” Cullen said, and her cheeks burned as he fixed his scrutiny on her. It was hard to sleep most nights, but Harry was haunting dreams as well as memories now.

“So should you,” she offered instead. The dark crescents under his eyes were lighter than before, a courtesy of the ring she’d given him. Yet, she knew from the rustles of cloth resonating from the tent he shared with Varric that sleep was a rarity.

“I mean it,” Cullen urged, “you were injured badly in the Graves. You need the rest.”

She pushed back a dry lump, recalling too well the agony of red lyrium slicing past her organs. One of her best tunics was forever ruined thanks to that _thing_. Red Templar shadows, a term Varric crafted. Mage hunters, once. Far more beastly than they’d been without the red lyrium. “I was stupid,” Petrina ground out, forgoing her usual insults. Dwelling on the incident reminded her of his arms cradling her, the concern almost burning a hole through his golden gaze. The pace of her heart thundering in her ears as her life ebbed in crimson streams down her chin.

“You were caught unaware. That’s what rogues do,” Cullen said, “but I’d rather you not take such a risk again.”

She pressed a hand to his arm, an unconscious reassurance. “I won’t make that same mistake again.”

“You’re the queen of risks,” he rebutted, “or do I need to remind you of your dragon obsession, the way you rushed toward the gates that night in Haven… forgive me. I’m not trying to lecture you.”

“I know that,” she said, squeezing his arm as her hand fell. “I’ll be more careful, so quit worrying.” The words tumbled free without consideration or a pause.

“That’s a tall order,” he admitted, and the softness his voice bore almost broke her. Heat flooded her face. She knew she was bright red, and she didn’t care. Nor did she mind the subtle smile tugging at her lips. Yet, doubt clustered in the back of her head, its grip vice-like. He’d been the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall. There wasn’t a chance in all Thedas. To say nothing of her being highborn, and him distrusting the nobility. Admittedly, he distrusted the nobles with good reason. Most shook with the same hand they used to stab rivals in the back.

_Especially in Orlais._ Against the beckoning glow of the moon and stars peeking past the persistent cloud cover, Suledin Keep glared back at her, a mesh of pale stone parapets and towers. Power radiated from the place, even at this distance. _Imshael_ , that was what the demon called itself according to the Empress’s former champion. Desire demons were powerful beasts, and she was oddly grateful the Circle hadn’t thought to test her with one. _Why would they? Serrion always knew your weaknesses, after all. Envy fit them best._

Jaw clenching, she hoped against reason that this time there wouldn’t be any blood magic. She’d had her fill of abominations and crazed mages. _And what if Harry’s in there with that thing?_ An answer hardened in her as she surveyed the keep. _I’ll do what I must._

_Liar._

Sleep was hard to come by that night. Petrina found it a struggle to keep her legs still, her heart from pounding. She laid awake until exasperation dragged her under. Even then, she dreamed of sunlit days before fire and Templars engulfed her world. Cat was there, cackling about something as she plucked away at her latest embroidery project with the same hands that wielded blades. Once, she’d had to wield those blades in secret. Elise was across the way, pacing near the fireplace, hair loose against broad shoulders, solace in her silver gaze. Gregory was always gone in those dreams now. Rowan was off to the side, busy in a chess game with a shadowed figure Petrina didn’t recognize until red slashed through the black. _“Your war,”_ Harry’s voice pulsed, menacing and laden with red lyrium’s unnatural shadow.

Cold sweat roused Petrina at those words. She woke to find the tent empty, the first traces of pastel sun wending into the heavens beyond her confines. Dressing quickly, she stalked into the freezing morning, grateful for the cold that daggered her. It was a pathetic consolation that her skin rose with gooseflesh still, between the lives she’d taken in the Circle, more since joining the Inquisition, to say nothing of those she’d ruined. Breath tumbled from her, streaking white on the bitter morning air. The others passed around the rations as she lingered there, drinking the enormity that was Suledin Keep.

“We’ll need to be careful,” Cassandra was saying between bites of stew, “a desire demon is no…”

“I _know_ ,” Petrina cut in, and Maker help her, she didn’t give a nug’s behind about the demon. Demons could be killed.

“Relax, Chuckles and I fought hundreds of them back in Kirkwall,” Varric said.

“What a _comforting_ thought,” Cassandra groused.

“Hawke never met an enemy she couldn’t defeat,” Cullen snorted, and Petrina didn’t know if that snort stemmed from derision or admiration. _Both?_

_Unlike you. So much for the superiority of training and academia, no?_ “Inquisitor, you need to eat something,” Cassandra called.

_After all, you can’t defeat a belief as fanatical as the Chantry, can you?_ Steeling her quaking nerves, Petrina trudged back to the others. Varric offered her a bowl of stew, and she forced it down as he regaled them with a tale of Hawke thrashing Tal-Vashoth outlaws on the Wounded Coast. Cullen alone seemed disinterested, those gentle eyes piercing clean through Petrina’s careful façade. _“What would you have me do, Sister? Relinquish my shield, my livelihood, and tramp off to start freeing mages everywhere in Thedas? Is that what you want?”_ Harry once flung at her, half a lifetime ago now. She’d been nineteen and full of fire, righteousness, infantile black-and-white notions of justice.

_“I’d have you do something, unless that pretty faith of yours has made you so ignorant of the reality in which you walk…”_

_“What would_ you _know of ignorance?”_

_“More than the Templar with his head clear up his ass, that’s for damn sure…”_

“Firestarter?”

She couldn’t remember how he’d responded, but she remembered how his face contorted and flushed with anger. “It… it’s nothing.” A distinct lie to the concern swathing Varric’s expression. Downing the last of her stew with a gulp, she lowered it onto an adjacent log. “Let’s get going.”

Suledin Keep would wait an eternity, but the red Templars and that desire demon would swallow Sahrnia if they weren’t dealt with soon. Off they went, stalking up toward the keep. It was larger than Petrina imagined. Up close, it was ornate and could’ve been delicate but for the carved skulls adorning some of the supporting pillars, the reek of red lyrium and magic on the air. Breaking through the front doors was the easiest part of taking the fort, as once they moved through the main doors, red Templars poured toward the group. Not the human-like ones. No, these were the familiar and bulky knights, plus the masses of flesh and crystal, maybe a couple of the behemoths from Haven. The behemoths were easier to take down in a group, least of all because Cassandra was a force of nature against the fiends. Unsurprising, given all that armor and muscle. Of course, that initial battle would prove the easiest of the lot.

Further in Suledin Keep, Petrina found large gated cells barred with iron. Past the bars were the hulking, rotting corpses of giants. All were crackling with crimson energy. A skim of nearby notes told her what she needed to know. The Templars were hoping to infect the giants for Corypheus. They’d also hoped for a breeding program but found no females of the species. _What a_ shame. Varric was disgusted at the notion. “Are they _crazy_?” he demanded, throwing his hands up.

“You realize they’re Templars, I trust. Most weren’t sane at the beginning,” Petrina quipped, although she was having trouble believing they were _this_ stupid. Giants were unstable at best. She’d found Venatori idiots in the Approach that thought it would be fun to try making the giants into pack animals. _Dead_ Venatori idiots.

“Having been in Kirkwall with Knight-Commander Meredith in power, I concede your point, my good lady,” Varric said, lightening a little. “We need to stop this.”

“No arguments from me,” she assured him. Her gaze slipped toward Cullen. Just beyond the area they’d claimed, she glimpsed more red streaking past the snows and dead trees. The rumble at the ground sent a jolt of dread through her. _Great. They got one of the giants infected and helping them._ “Go for its legs until that thing is down!” she barked, unfurling her staff as the Templars swept toward the group. The giant’s eyes glowed scarlet as it lumbered after its masters. Pity flared in her for the beast, angry and irritating as she found them to be, no one deserved that fate.

Fire kept the red Templars at bay, as these ones were more human-like than some of the rest. The giant was another matter. Cullen and Cassandra distracted the thing while Varric tried to avoid boulders slung his way from the beast’s tantrums. Petrina set fire mines beneath the creature’s enormous feet. Smoke and flame simmered on the cold air each time it staggered into one of her traps. It was one of Varric’s frost elemental mines that sent the giant to its knees, wailing in agony. Petrina got in close as it fell, raining fire over its small, tusked head. Varric followed suit with Bianca’s bolts and the beast dropped, lifeless, to the snows. Blood blossomed against the white, seeping from the giant’s wounds.

Past the giant’s carcass, there was one more surviving red lyrium giant, plus a contingent of Templars. The second one was maybe younger. It went down quicker. Moving forward, the group found themselves striding past a set of doors, right into a vast chamber now carpeted in snow and occupied solely by a dark-haired man in Orlesian velvets and furs. Power emanated from him, heady and nauseating. “Ah, at last, you’ve found me,” the man purred, his eyes an unnatural gold as they slithered toward her.

“Yes,” she agreed, focusing on the clouds pooling in the skies above. “We found you.”

“So, this is the demon,” Cullen snarled at her side, blade tearing from its scabbard.

The _thing_ cleared its throat. “Choice. Spirit.”

“Not how it works,” Petrina clipped. Spirit healers were often at risk for possession by benevolent spirits. A few had told her that benevolent spirits were helpful and kind in practicing their craft, but nothing more. That was the case in Ostwick, less so elsewhere. Some that got possessed managed _not_ to twist the spirit into a demon, but that was rare. Many more had wants and desires that corrupted spirits, warping them.

“So you say.” The thing unleashed a decorative smile on her. “Call me Imshael, little dancing mage.”

“Your tricks don’t work on me.” All she wanted was gone, out of reach.

The demon clicked its tongue. “Oh, I suppose we’ll do this the _hard_ way then…” Cullen charged forward as the creature lifted a pair of pale fingers, shield knocking the beast down. Petrina turned aside as the sickening sound of a blade cutting through a heart filled her ears. As the demon dissolved to black-green shards, the patter of footsteps hit the air.

“Shit,” Varric said, loading Bianca.

Cassandra charged toward the nearest entrance, shield up. Petrina readied her staff as red Templars poured from all the adjacent passages toward them, a _tide_ of so-called holy warriors mixed with beasts. At least two behemoths, four of the knights, but no giants. _Fragile things, I guess._ Cullen inched closer to her, raising his shield.

Petrina fisted flame in her hand, bathing some of the human warriors. “Purge her!” someone yelled.

“Stay behind me,” Cullen urged.

“I’d like to see you try, cowards,” Petrina shot back.

White light burst from the surviving cluster of human warriors, dousing all traces of mage fire. Her throat constricted. Old fears swelled up in the back of her head, her body weak and pitiful without magic, veins dry and aching for lyrium, robes lead against her frame. _Don’t get hit._ When the Templars charged, everything dissolved into chaos as they flanked the Inquisitor and her group. She set as many fire mines for them as she could, fade-stepping whenever one of the bastards raised a blade to the ground. In between the red Templars, there were also the swings of massive red lyrium limbs as the behemoths lumbered about, though the one was already missing its arms courtesy of Cassandra. Petrina wove past the Templars, dousing all in fire that she could find.

“It’s Wendell’s pet!” someone yelled over the din of clashing blades and the sizzle of red lyrium.

Anger tore through her at those words. “The _hell_ I am!” she roared, staff plummeting to the frosted ground. Flame fanned out around her, a crackling tsunami that scorched all in its path.

Templars shrieked as they died. Her delight was short-lived. Steel crashed against frostbitten earth at her back. Pain flared in her veins, white flashing behind her eyelids. All breath left her. Staggering backwards, she fumbled for a potion on her belt, breaths slow and uneven as she raised her staff. Five of the bastards were advancing on her, that damned flaming sword a ruddy light against their white steel breastplates. Curses tore through her thoughts. The _last_ thing she wanted to see before she died were those damn swords. Blades glinted. “Who’s laughing now?” one of them leered. “Whore of Ostwick?”

Rage broiled in her. “I am _no one’s_ slave,” she snarled. Pain nipped at her left arm, unique from the ache in her veins. _The mark._ One look down revealed snapping peridot. All she had to do was raise the thing and green burst from the anchor, raw Fade energy scalding the advancing Templars, dissolving them to nothing. A scream tore from her as black dots spattered her vision, tears pooling behind her eyes. She dropped to her knees as the anchor quieted, her staff forgotten in the snows at her side. Wheezing, she clutched at her hand as the anchor went still again. _Move. You must move._ She swallowed, hard and fast, shrinking back as energy stirred once more in her veins, staving off the lingering numbness in her marked hand. Fire listed between her fingers, falling upon another surge of Templars. Past a curtain of flame, a sea of foreign faces and helms, came the one person she knew awaited her at the end of this.

The one whose steps always dogged her own, who never could resist antagonizing her. As he stepped forward, she had to fight back a laugh. Dark stubble lined his chin, and his hair was longer now, tied back in a braid, but those somber silver irises, the long nose they shared with their mother, it was all there. Rose quartz prayer beads gleamed at the collar of his armor, and Ostwick green and gold clung to his gorget. _Harry._

Surprise rippled through his features as he regarded her. “It can’t be. They told me…”

“What?” she choked, pulling the arrow from her shoulder with a hiss. She clapped a healing spell to the wound. “They told you I’d died? Please, Harry, it takes more than a few of your blighted Templars to kill me.”

Petrina reached for her staff, rising to her feet. _Just in case I have to run._ Harry fixed a disappointed frown on her. “You always _did_ have to meddle,” he muttered.

“They’re my people, Harry,” she said.

“And _they_ are mine,” he said, hand flapping toward the Templars occupying her companions past their isolation.

She studied him, her heart a deafening cacophony in her ears. There was no reek of red on him. It didn’t mean a thing. Yet, maybe the Templars hadn’t noticed either. Perhaps they’d hoped he’d be a convert. Or that he’d get infected. “It’s not the same, and you know it,” she continued. “I was born this way. You weren’t born a Templar.”

“Might as well have been,” he shot back. A sigh tore from him as his head fell. “Maker’s blood. They told me about the Conclave. That you’d been killed. That the mages out there were nothing but maleficarum.”

“I’m sure you’d have cheered anyway,” she chirped, “you never much cared for the _mage_ who didn’t know her place.”

“That’s not true,” he hastened, head whipping toward her. “You can’t know how it _haunted_ me, Petra, when I learned what happened to you at Ostwick.”

Her stomach turned. He couldn’t have known. The Chantry didn’t investigate the reports, let alone trade them. “Yet you still ran off and joined them, just like the zealot you always were,” she surmised, grip ironclad against her staff’s warm metal.

“I wanted to help them, and I wanted peace. I swear.”

Beyond them, the red Templars were falling to a blur of elemental explosions and sturdy blades. “So, you joined a magister darkspawn?” she asked. “You’ve had a _lot_ of dumb ideas, but this is by far the worst of them…”

“I was trying to _help_ them!” Harry cried. He shifted his weight, attention sliding toward the red Templars sparring with Petrina’s companions. Moving closer, he whispered, “A mage found me, a Dalish elf. She said she was with the Inquisition, that they were trying to restore order, that I could help if I… lent them my services.”

Petrina’s throat ran dry. “What?”

“It’s why you can’t smell it on me. I was to spy for the Inquisition, feed them anything I had on Samson, not that it was much.”

_They made you into a spy? Without consulting me?_ “I… I wasn’t told,” she managed.

“I would never do anything to hurt you, or mages, Templars, whatever,” Harry went on, fervent, “Mother would have me flogged and disowned.”

“I doubt that,” Petrina said.

His ensuing smile was half-hearted, wan and still as the frozen river down in the pass. Yet, as his lips pursed to speak, a choked gasp ripped from him and blood rushed forth. A trio of arrows studded his back, their hardened tips cutting clean past white steel chainmail. In the shadows of an adjacent alcove, several hooded Templars looked on with malicious grins dominating their shadowed faces. Fire tore from her hand, roasting the archers before they had time to reach for more arrows. Time slowed as Harry dropped. Red fringed her vision as she rushed toward him. Catching him, she buckled beneath his weight to the frostbitten ground. Her thoughts were an incoherent mess as she peered into his glazed silver irises. “I was never as brave as you,” he choked out, “I hated you for it. You always did what you wanted.”

Despair sank in as he went limp against her with a shuddering exhale. She’d found him. The stubborn oaf. He hadn’t hated her. He’d spied for the Inquisition. Risked his life for her. Given his life for her. Another debt she couldn’t repay.

Lyrium crackled in her nostrils, and steel glinted in the corner of her vision. She sucked at her teeth. Energy flared in her veins. “Get the apostate,” another Templar spoke, emerging with a crowd at her back. “The Elder One will want to deal with her.”

“Yes,” Petrina whispered, her voice cracking as grief shattered her composure, “come get the apostate.” They halted in their tracks, at least a dozen of them, and wicked glee darted through her. Grief and rage twisted into vile delight as flame fanned out from her palm. Their screams filled her ears, a bittersweet chorus as they drowned beneath her fire. Her other hand pressed Harry close to her, and when the last Templar fell to sodden ground, she collapsed over her brother’s body, wheezing as her grief took her. Tears blurred her vision, and all she heard past the baying winds, the dying din of clashing blades and whizzing bowstrings, were her heavy sobs.

She’d found him. Her brother. Her tormentor. The whole time he’d been on her side. And in the end, it hadn’t meant a damn thing. Her damnable selfishness had taken him, like it had the others, but this was different. For a time, they’d been brother and sister again, rather than mage and Templar. Non-believer and faithful.

_Why?_

Voices hit her ears, a thousand miles away despite their immediate proximity. “Curly, I’d be careful,” Varric murmured. _When did they get here?_

A tender hand at her shoulder, warm past the cloying cold, forced her to face the world again. She peered into grim, sympathetic golden-brown irises. Fereldan eyes. Shining with compassionate understanding. “Come on,” he urged, “we’ll need to…” _Prepare his body._ That raised another lump in her throat, another round of scalding, guilt-laden sorrow. It was her fault. Too slow, too quick to judge, too angry. She fumbled through her pockets for a handkerchief. Mute, she wiped the blood from Harry’s chin, hating how her hand shook at the gesture.

With kindness she ought to have spared him in life, she moved him from her lap to the ground, stuffing her mottled handkerchief in her bag. Pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, she quelled a beckoning whimper, though more tears streamed down her cheeks. Cassandra and Varric moved in next, joined by Inquisition agents. The agents set to work pitching tents and preparing bodies for burning. Petrina didn’t watch as they moved Harry toward the pyres being built in the courtyard. Cullen’s hand found her shoulder again, rubbing small circles against her leather jerkin. She kept replaying Harry’s words in her ears. He’d been spying. For the Inquisition. The Order told him she was dead. The Inquisition hadn’t told her about him being a spy. He’d been trying to help the Templars. They’d betrayed him. _Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?_

Air dragged through her lungs, sharp and fast. It was _too_ familiar. They were alike, more than she’d considered. Cassandra materialized at Petrina’s side in the next moment, bearing a thick golden band with an owl signet on it and those familiar rose quartz beads. _“You can’t know how it_ haunted _me, Petra.”_ She pushed the ring and beads into her pocket, loathing how heavy they seemed. He must have learned from the Inquisition. _They didn’t tell him I was alive. Maybe he didn’t ask. I didn’t trust him._ _Why didn’t I trust him?_

“We found these, Inquisitor.” Agent Lavellan had a set of crisp white papers in hand, all bearing the green seals of Ostwick.

Petrina took the papers, and with unfeeling hands, broke the seals. Harry’s spidery writing filled the pages. Confessions, apologies, and then, something in a flourishing, Antivan script:

_To my youngest, Petrina Emmeline Trevelyan, I Lord Roberto Trevelyan hereby convey all interest in the contents of the safe contained in the Bank of Val Royeaux, including all interests in ownership, use, alienation, and income. Should the Chantry make the above conveyance invalid, the property will pass in trust to Harold Trevelyan to be held for her benefit until such a time as the Circles are abolished or Chantry law is altered to permit the holding of title. Under the presence of the two attesting witnesses below, I, Roberto Trevelyan, decree this to be my will with respect to the above property and henceforth part of the will contained behind the landscape painting in my study and held in its original form with my lawyer in Ostwick._

Uncertainty welled in her as she drank in the attestation beneath those words, complete with her father’s own ornate calligraphy. _He agreed._ Trusts weren’t made without a trustee’s consent. _For how long? Why?_ He could’ve burned the documents, opted out of being the trustee, handed it over to Cat or Elise or Gregory, and yet… he’d kept them, held onto the obligation. _Why?_

_I can’t ever repay this._ Numb hands pocketed the papers. She offered her hoarse thanks to Agent Lavellan. Then, Petrina went to sit alone in the nearest Inquisition tent, thumbing at her brother’s ring, rereading the documents. The conveyance was valid now. The Circles were gone. _He should’ve told me._

_It wouldn’t have made a difference if he had, you know._ The resentment would’ve burned sooner and longer. Kept behind high walls, knowing title awaited her if the walls were demolished, she could’ve gone rogue like that idiot in Kirkwall. It also could’ve harmed their family if word ever broke loose that they’d tried conveying valid title to a mage. Throat taut, she dropped back in her bedroll, pressing the papers to her chest. Hot tears blistered behind her lashes as Harry dropped to the snows in her thoughts, a visual mantra that wouldn’t leave her.

A shadow fell over her, and she jolted upright, swiping at her eyes, tucking the papers into her jerkin once more. Cullen was there, ashen. “One of the revered mothers from the town wishes to say a prayer before we light the pyres,” he said.

“I suppose I should go,” she answered, despising how her syllables wobbled. Harry had hated her bravery. What in Thedas did that mean? _You’ll never know now._

Teeth sinking into her lip, she stood. Cullen offered his hand to her, and she took it, her other hand slipping her brother’s ring back in her pocket. Someone would need to send it home. Together, they strode out into the night. All was black and white, save the stutter of torch light. The pyres were hunched like hermits in the courtyard. Petrina flinched as the reek of incense charred the pine-filled air. Someone was reciting the Chant. That terrible passage for the departed, about the lights leading the dead from this world into the next. As if fate was so kind as to allow another life beyond death.

Up the torches went, and then down toward the pyres. Petrina pressed her knuckle to her teeth as another sob broke loose. “It’s alright,” Cullen said, thumb massaging her hand. It wasn’t alright. Harry was dead. He hadn’t hated her, not outright. Not as she’d thought. She’d gotten him back right as he died.

“Y-you can’t say that,” she hiccupped, “it’s not alright at all. He’s dead and it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” the former Templar hastened. The ingenuity in his words struck her, cutting deep.

“He was spying,” she managed between her sobs, “he was working with Agent Lavellan. That’s why he was with them.”

Confusion tore across Cullen’s features. “You… might have… misheard him?”

_They kept it from you too._ “I didn’t,” she affirmed, and that stung worst of all. It was true. He’d been working for her this whole time, and she hadn’t been there to help him, to save him.

“Petrina,” Cullen said, low and kind, “that still doesn’t make you responsible…”

Fresh tears joined the ones drying on her cheeks. “It does! I’m the mage child! F-for h-him to die here, on m-my watch…” Sense and reason fled along with those words. She dissolved again, dropping his hand as she hunched against herself, grief twining around her heart. Sturdy arms wrapped around her as she wept, and in that moment, she didn’t care that he’d been a Templar, the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall. She shifted and buried her face in his chest as sobs wracked her. He held her like Ollie had, smoothing down her hair, murmuring reassurances in her ears. For a moment, Cullen’s warm sturdiness was all that mattered.

* * *

 

_“My match again, Harry,” she decreed, her lone white bishop knocking his black queen over against a checkered battlefield. The bishop stood triumphant now against the king._

_Across the chessboard, Harry’s brows were notched. “Again,” he ordered._

_She stretched her arms wide, knowing too well she was sticky with sweat in the relentless summer humidity. With a roll of her head toward the wisteria dappling them in shade, she flicked a wasp from her shoulder. “I think not. I have two more days at home, and I’ll be damned if I’m spending them here, with_ you _.”_

_“Do what you want, then. You always do,” he sneered, “I’ll get Gregory to play.”_

_“He actually_ enjoys _your company and this dreadful game, so I wager this will be a good change for him.” She hopped to her feet._

_“Petra,” Harry called as she spun on her heel. Eyes rolling, she halted in her tracks._

_“Yes?” she prompted._

_“Be careful, alright? I hear things about Libertarians.”_

_“You hear_ many _things as a Templar, I imagine, most of which aren’t true.”_

_“Blood magic is a real threat, and…”_

_“What? You think I’m dumb enough to turn to blood magic?” she demanded, rounding on him._

_He ducked his gaze toward the chessboard he was realigning for the next game. “No,” he said, placing a black pawn on its square at the front lines, “but you could get hurt.”_

_“I_ can _care for myself.”_

_“I know that.”_

_“So why bring it up?”_

_His hand hovered above another pawn. “Forget I mentioned it.”_

_“Everything you say is forgettable, if only for how senseless it all is.”_

_An exasperated exhale burst from him. The chessboard rattled, the pieces scattering as his fists slammed against the table. “Maker’s blood, Petra, just go.”_

_Tugging at the shoulder opening on her green robe, she shrugged and did as he asked. Glee spiraled through her at the frustration he’d exhibited. Some things would never grow old, like pissing off the pious Templar._

Petrina shifted against silken sheets to pale alpine sun slashing at the ornate blue stained-glass doors to her balcony, dousing the room in a kaleidoscope. Since her return from the Emprise, she hadn’t the courage to face anyone. Suledin Keep was doing well, that was what Josephine’s written messages signaled. Orlesian nobility, those _not_ corrupt or bloodthirsty, had settled into the keep and were helping rebuild the town. Mistress Poulin included. A fine punishment. Cullen was working hard at determining where Samson had fled, and Petrina was drowning in regret, memories lashing out in her dreams of simpler, yet more stifling, times.

Voices echoed up to her from the stairwell. “We can’t leave her up there. The Inquisition needs her,” Josephine was saying.

“She lost her brother,” Leliana objected.

“Yes,” Cullen intoned, “because _you_ recruited him as an agent without seeking her permission or even informing her or me.”

“I did what I thought was best for all of us,” the rogue backlashed.

“It may have cost us _everything_ ,” Josephine snapped.

Petrina buried her face in her pillow, drinking in the stale scent of sleep and sweat. Her eyes squeezed shut. This time, she didn’t go back to Ostwick. Rather, she found herself in Haven’s isolated, backwoods streets, the sky quiet and grey above her. _What on earth?_

Cold listed at her skin. “Well,” a solemn voice mused, “I never thought you’d be able to reach me _here_.”

Up ahead, right where the steps had led to Varric’s fire, was Solas. _Barefoot_ , she noted with a grimace as he neared, feet padding at frosted muck with ease. “Go away,” she said, striding in the opposite direction.

“I heard about the Emprise,” he offered.

Her chest tightened. The memory of Harry’s weight in her lap, that last breath, cracked her composure. She paused in her steps, rubbing at unshed tears. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“As am I.”

“I suppose you killed the mages that bound… it?”

“Yes.”

“And did it help?” she prodded, picking at the braided trim on her sleeve.

“No,” Solas confessed, “I couldn’t save it. It… died.”

“My apologies.” She turned toward him. “What’s dying like, for spirits?”

“Their energy returns to the Fade. Another spirit might well come to reside where it lived, but it wouldn’t be the same, most likely.” He cracked a faint smile. “It would not be the friend I knew.”

Petrina nodded, drank in another breath against the grief suffocating her. “I’m sorry.”

“I did return,” Solas added, bald head tilting as it often did when they spoke. She never knew whether he found her curious or a form of amusement. “To Skyhold,” the elven mage amended.

“Then I owe Varric an ale,” she decreed, pausing to regard their surroundings. “And _this_ is the Fade…” Awe and fear pitted her as she regarded the sensation of snow poking at her cheeks, the rustle of pine branches, the crunch of footsteps in snowmelt and grit. _We’re in the Fade._

“Indeed,” Solas said with something akin to reverence, “it would seem you hold the key to our salvation. You can seal rifts with a gesture. You walked in the Fade outside Haven. Part of me wonders if you couldn’t have visited me here awake…”

“Don’t be silly,” she cut in, “it’s all due to the anchor.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, “but to _survive_.”

Head swimming, she turned from him. The implication was too dire to consider. “It’s not real anyway,” she deadpanned to the skies.

“That’s a matter of debate,” Solas answered.

She forced back the beckoning flare of argumentation. The Fade churned around her, Haven distorting to a lush green courtyard studded in warm lanternlight and filigreed white trellises. Evening spattered the skies in blue and pink. Across the way, she glimpsed a younger version of herself trading jabs with Rowan, flushed and bright-eyed, champagne flutes clinking. Harry sat near the twins, languishing in silent misery at their japes, all at his expense.

Other people were filling the vacant spaces now, the well-dressed elite from across the Marches. A passing woman in a massive pink gown drifted through the mages. None of it was real, Petrina knew, but it _had_ happened. Realization daggered her as she drank in the pink-gowned woman’s profile, all lush gold ringlets and big, thick-lashed eyes. Lady Aren, one of Cat’s friends. Never one to be upstaged, even by the center of attention. Trailing those pink, swaying skirts, Petrina followed Lady Aren right to the table Harry shared with his twin siblings.

The scene stuttered as Petrina neared. A dull evening was replaced with blinding white skies, snow, and the vine-covered walls of Suledin Keep. She drew a sharp breath. Just ahead of her were two familiar figures, one swathed in teal and dark leather, the other in bright Templar mail. Her eyes squeezed shut as he dropped, her screams filling her ears alongside the crack of mage fire and agonized shrieks of the archers. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the recent memory of her small, weeping form over her brother’s corpse.

Solas’s footsteps crunched toward her, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. “You need to wake up, my friend,” he murmured, a stern hand jostling her shoulder. “This is doing you no good. You cannot bring him back and you’ve had your revenge.” He was right, painful as the admission was against the agonizing din of loss.

The rattle of breath in her lungs, starched with a dry gasp, roused her to soft sheets and sunlight. The hushed arguing of her advisors emanated beyond her door, alongside the empty certainty in her heart. The certainty that she’d made a terrible mistake, one that would scrub her name _permanently_ from her family tree, her siblings’ memories. _How am I to tell Rowan?_

Rowan and Dorian weren’t back yet. Word came that they were spending time in Val Royeaux regarding a private matter. Petrina was loathing that conversation. Uncertain legs carried her through her door, toward her advisors. “War room,” she said to Josephine and Leliana, fixing a glare on the rogue.

Once they were out of earshot, Cullen approached. “I was worried,” he admitted.

_Worried that I’d fall to possession?_ It lacked heart. Petrina knew what he meant. Worried for her. Remembering the warm sturdiness of his hold on her caused a rush of heat to flood her cheeks. “I’ll need to tell Mother, and that won’t be fun,” she forced out, “but I’ll not tell Rowan until he’s here. I owe him that much.”

“Petrina, you’re not responsible.”

She folded her arms, savoring their weight against her chest. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“It does if you’re beating yourself over the head with those thoughts,” he insisted.

_Why do you care?_ At the emotion scoring his look, she pushed that question back. “Thank you,” she added instead, a limp and pathetic offering for all the good he’d given her. “And I’m… sorry. For being so… so…” _Pathetic? Angry? All the above?_

“You don’t owe me anything, Petrina.”

Holding his gaze became a struggle. She was aware of how little space lay between them, the heat he resonated. _Fereldans, damn them._ The kindness, that constant, cloying kindness pressing at her heart, her lungs. The uncertain tilt of his scarred mouth. Her feet were rooted in place, and she noticed the sweat sliding down her spine despite the cool air frothing around them. _Say something, you damn fool._

“We should discuss Orlais,” she said, “in the… war room.” _Oh, nicely done._

That broke whatever spell had hold of them. Relieved and somewhat disappointed, Petrina headed after him as her breath returned to her. _He was a Templar. The Knight-Captain of Kirkwall._ That mantra did nothing to still the blood rushing to her head. _You’re a mage. Would he ever fall for a mage? Given all that’s happened to him?_ Knowing her luck, he had some doe-eyed maiden waiting for him somewhere.

_It will mean nothing unless you save the empress of Orlais anyhow._ That thought shook all notions of Cullen from her mind. Determination forging a bulwark against Harry’s death, she schooled her expression and sauntered into the war room. “First order of business,” she decreed, focusing on Leliana’s uncertain blue irises, “is the matter of secrecy in recruiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's role was once filled by Rowan at the Conclave, and then by Gregory either at the Conclave or in Haven. I can't remember. There were two full (i.e., this length or longer) drafts of this fic before this one and Petrina had different names and personalities in them (in an unfinished draft, she was a redhead before I, y'know, purged that instinct by playing Felicity Amell in _Origins_ ). This confrontation between her and the Templar brother went differently in the early drafts. It once happened in the Graves with Rowan present, but I decided I didn't like that idea, so here we are. Her relationship with Cullen started earlier, too. We're close here, though. Home stretch until they finally figure out that having feelings for each other isn't a bad thing.
> 
> Illegal trusts are invalid on creation, but… this is a fictional trust in a wealthy family that belongs to a fantasy land, so who cares? Any jargon or legal-sounding language contained herein is not legal advice. I’m not a lawyer. I’m not your lawyer. /Obligatory disclaimer. And yes, at the time I wrote this, I was reviewing trust creation for the bar exam (btw, bar courses... just mash wills and trusts together like my school does, FFS, they're so connected they might as well be the same damn course).


	23. Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Harold Trevelyan gone, Petrina is in mourning and Cullen is close to Samson. Josephine is at her wit's end trying to get people to cooperate regarding the impending ball in Orlais. Dorian and Rowan return to dour moods and grim news, to say nothing of an infuriating chess game with the Inquisition's commander. And Cullen discovers that maybe, just maybe, his high hopes aren't unattainable after all.

Of all the responses Petrina could’ve chosen for Harold’s death, the one she chose surprised Cullen. She didn’t wasn’t cruel, though she could’ve been. Rather, she requested that all advisers receive a recruit’s dossier prior to that recruit’s first assignment. Apart from that meeting, Harold’s death wasn’t mentioned again in the war room. Attentions turned to the end of the Orlesian civil war and the imminent ball Empress Celene was having at the Winter Palace. Josephine had gained the Inquisition an invitation, it seemed, through the would-be usurper Duke Gaspard de Chalons.

Nobility from Ferelden and the Marches would be among those in attendance, though the Fereldans would probably be a minority. Cullen couldn’t be bothered to complain much, even when Josephine’s tailors intruded on a key afternoon of parsing through Samson’s correspondence for clues of his move from the Dales. Cullen let the tailors pluck and pull at his attire for a few hours that seemed closer to an eon, though he had it easy compared to Petrina. She spent far too much time alone in her rooms. What little glimpses he caught of her entailed black clothing and grim, bloodshot eyes glowering at walls and ceilings, sometimes unfortunate servants. She never wept around the others, not since burning Harold’s body in the Emprise. Cullen had no idea how to console her, and he felt useless offering only his presence. Nothing could bring her brother back, and short of that, he was a poor help for now. Then again, he didn’t need to avoid her thanks to her newfound isolation. She kept clear of his office, alongside everyone else, excepting meetings or other unfortunate necessities.

Cullen almost found it a relief when Dorian and Rowan returned, the latter in considerable cheer. Petrina led Rowan upstairs in hollow silence. Cullen tore his attention from the twins once they disappeared beyond the doors adjacent to the throne dais in the main hall. He downed some ham-stuffed croissants on his trek back to the ramparts. Dorian trailed the former Templar. “You know,” the Tevinter said, “I’d _swear_ you look different. Maybe that’s just me. New haircut?”

“What do you want?” Cullen asked.

Dorian shivered at the harsh tone. “Any particular reason for the prickliness?”

Cullen pushed on into his office. He hadn’t the right to tell. “There was a loss in the Emprise,” he said, “the Inquisitor may tell you more, should you ask.”

“We _both_ know she won’t do that.” Dorian tugged at a curled end of his mustache as he sauntered into Cullen’s office, far too garish for the simple décor and cramped surroundings. Half his outfit was adorned in small, glittering pieces of metal. It made him look like a chandelier. “Though that does explain why she led Rowan off by the arm the moment he entered the hall.”

“Have you any _reason_ for being here?” Cullen asked.

Dorian brightened. “Our dear ambassador ordered quite a few chessboard tables for the garden. I heard a rumor that you played. I was wondering how you’d fare against _me_.”

“You’re bored.”

“I have personal affairs that I need to get out of my mind,” Dorian objected, chest puffing with indignance. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me, as you’re a worthy opponent.”

Stowing a retort, Cullen threw a look toward his desk. A single note lay atop the rest of his papers. He snatched the note before Dorian had a chance to examine it. Petrina’s writing filled the scrap of paper: _Thank you for treating me like a person, not a toy or a weapon. You’re one of the few good ones left. Don’t worry for me. I’ll be fine._

Warmth unfurled in Cullen’s chest and he reread the words for good measure before pocketing the paper. He scanned the remainder of the papers on his desk. Information on Samson. Resisting the urge to tear into those papers, Cullen gestured to the door. “After you.”

“Such a gentleman, no wonder our feisty Inquisitor fancies you.”

_I’m going to regret this._

The men navigated to the gardens without issue, an extraordinary feat. One of the chess tables was already set, and Cullen wondered if he remembered the rules as they sat down to play. Once he picked up a pawn, the game came back to him in shards of sun-soaked memories of Honnleath, before Blight blackened the land and the Templar Order almost tainted his soul. Dorian chatted some as they played, and Cullen gathered the mage was an only child. Not fond of Tevinter, if only for what it _could_ represent. Not unlike Leliana or Cassandra regarding the Chantry. Cullen could’ve soaked his head for thinking that, yet it wasn’t untrue. The fervency of faith, the need for progress, reform, it was similar. “What about you, Commander?” Dorian asked as he reached for his bishop. “Surely you have a reason for being here.”

“I…” Cullen hadn’t considered it, beyond surviving. Saving the world from insane Templars and blood mages. Yet, when he forced the matter, he knew why he’d stayed. The alluring tilt of red lips, the fire that ignited past silver irises, the graceful sway of onyx hair in a crowded hall. Her fragile vulnerability, that iron-jawed will in the face of blood magic and demons, the devotion and trust she placed in her fellow mages, her touch on his arm, her weight against him as he embraced her. _Petrina Trevelyan._

“Ah,” Dorian said, pity brewing in his grey hazel stare, “so none of us are far off with the teasing, then.”

Bristling, Cullen pointed to the board. “Make your move. We don’t have all day.”

“Touchy,” Dorian laughed as he slid his bishop across the board, snatching Cullen’s rook.

An amateur’s mistake. Cullen took the bishop with a knight. “I wanted to make up for what happened in Kirkwall, I suppose. This is… my chance of redeeming myself.”

“Yes, nasty business that. Raping and beating mages while imprisoning them in slave cells does nothing for confidence, let alone the willpower needed to stave off temptation,” Dorian chastised. “Though I expect the Seekers’ inaction didn’t help.”

What investigation occurred concluded with the Seekers supposing Meredith’s actions were justified. Something Cassandra deeply regretted, and something Cullen wondered about. It was all pointless now, but he remembered the lingering and pitying looks those mages in Kirkwall had thrown him on their paths out the gates. In his warped dreams, he swore he caught a flash of red hair in that mess, but it was impossible. Rumor went the eldest Amell had surrendered herself to the Ansburg Circle on escaping Kirkwall. That was what that odd boy with the blonde hair and ridiculous hat had told Cullen, anyway. Ansburg was a nicer Circle, wealthy, with disciplined and stern mages that could match a power-hungry Knight-Commander. Blaming Orsino for what happened in Kirkwall was foolish, of course. The man had been an elf and a foreigner at that, two things that made it hard to meet Meredith on even ground. No one knew what happened to the First Enchanter. Cullen knew the elf lived, but the fate laid out in _The Tale of the Champion_ was as impossible as it was enthralling to read.

_Nothing could’ve changed that night, though._ “It is what it is,” Cullen said.

Dorian reached for his rook, then drew his hand back. “And here I thought you were a brooding loner full of regret for what _has_ been.”

“How generous of you.”

Surveying his pieces, Dorian opted to move a knight over, taking out one of Cullen’s bishops. “I thought so,” the mage preened, “I am the picture of generosity, you know.”

“And also the most skilled mage in Thedas, I suppose,” Cullen deadpanned.

Dorian feigned surprise as he clasped his hands over his heart. “Commander, you know me so well!”

“I know that you think _highly_ of yourself.”

“I _am_ pretty wonderful,” Dorian said, readjusting one of the straps on his impractical tunic. One side left a shoulder bare. How the man wasn’t complaining of cold constantly, as Tevinter was tropical, Cullen had no idea. Petrina hated the cold, and she was a fire mage.

“You’re not that great.”

“Oh, but I _am_ , and when you come to terms with my inevitable victory, you will feel much better.”

Cullen forced his attention to the board, moving his remaining rook out to swipe Dorian’s forward queen. “Gloat all you like, but I have this one,” the former Templar said, pride bursting in him at the genuine shock that gripped Dorian’s expression. It was just a second of astonishment that too soon melted into composed sarcasm.

“Are you two playing nice?”

All dignity Cullen had flew out the window as Petrina’s shadow dipped over their board. “Inquisitor,” he said, rising.

“I’m _always_ nice,” Dorian huffed, brows folding as he evaluated the board. “And if the commander is leaving, that means I win…”

Cullen sank back into his chair. Petrina cracked a hint of a smile at Dorian’s words, although her eyes were listless. _She told Rowan_ , Cullen knew. Dorian pushed a knight further along, taking out a couple pawns in his way. _Right into my trap._ Cullen retrieved his queen, swiped the knight, and ran across the board to the king.

“Oh drat,” Dorian huffed, “don’t get smug, there will be no living with you.”

Petrina _truly_ laughed then, head falling back, hair tumbling past her shoulders. “Cousin, you should know better than to try that. He’s our military commander.”

Dorian studied her a minute. Some untold awareness radiated behind that inscrutable arrogance. “I suppose I should see after your brother. Can’t have the poor dear falling from a tree and breaking his neck.” He sauntered off, the metal accents on his clothes jingling in his wake.

Cullen was torn between cursing and praising the Tevinter. “I suppose I should get back to my duties, unless you would like a game.” A clumsy invitation. He hoped it would be a _welcome_ one, a good distraction from recent events.

“Sure,” she said, distance burrowing in her silver stare, “Harry and I used to play, if he was at home when I was visiting.”

Preparing the board was a good method of ameliorating the nervousness seizing him from her presence. It was such a boyish and stupid thing, but he couldn’t help it. “I’m surprised,” he admitted, cheeks flaming as he dutifully placed the pieces in their spots. “I heard you had a difficult relationship.”

“Yes,” she said as she sat opposite him, “but he always _insisted_ on it.”

“I used to play with my older sister Mia. My brother and I practiced for weeks before I was finally able to beat her.”

“Oh, no, I _always_ bested Harry. He probably thought I magicked the board,” Petrina said, reaching for a pawn.

“No wonder you never got along,” Cullen laughed. _Keep it light._

She smirked up at him as she moved her pawn forward. “What about your family? How is your relationship with them?”

“I haven’t had much time to write them.” Mia had written him countless times since Kirkwall and the mess at Haven. He’d responded briefly to perhaps _one_ of those letters.

“But you have siblings,” Petrina continued, easing back in her chair.

“Two sisters and a brother.” Cullen chanced a grin in her direction. “Hardly the crowd you grew up with.”

“I wouldn’t say we grew up together,” she admitted, pink thrumming in her cheeks, “not really, but we did… what we could, I guess.”

“You still managed to attend balls and parties,” he said, reaching for a knight. He took a chance on her companionship and nettled, “You learned the ways of the nobility well enough.”

“It’s not hard,” she answered, fingers toying with her tunic collar, nails scraping at lush Orlesian velvet. “You just never show your cards, let them think they have the upper hand, and smile, no matter how rude they are to you, use your childhood manners of _please_ and _thank you_. They’ll give you what you want if you’re sweet enough.”

_I doubt I have it in me._ He’d always been impatient and brash when it came to certain things. Back in Ferelden and Kirkwall, that was magic. Here, it turned out that his impatience lay with the rich and entitled. People who blissfully ignored problems with the Chantry, the Circles, the rural villages lost ten years ago to darkspawn. “I haven’t your talent, I’m afraid,” he said presently, inching his knight closer to her king.

That ruddy mouth of hers quirked before her rook swiped his knight. He cursed his lack of foresight. “You’d be surprised. Orlesians will believe anything if you’re polite enough.”

“Is that _all_?” he asked, inching up to the edge of his chair.

“It’s not so difficult, although the masks and wigs _are_ distracting.”

“ _Everything_ about Orlais is distracting.” _Including this damn ball of Josephine’s._ Hand stretching toward his remaining knight, he nudged it forward, taking care around her rook.

“I can’t say I’ve ever _properly_ been, apart from Val Royeaux, and that wasn’t the city, not really. It was just a fragment of it.”

“I don’t know why you’d _want_ to see it,” Cullen confessed.

Midway through surveying the board, she raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s pretty and some of us were locked away in Ostwick by Chantry law, so we never got the chance.” The glint in her eye signaled mirth in those words, deep though they cut.

“I forget,” he supposed, and it was the truth. It was easy to forget she’d ever been in a Circle, that she was a mage. _“Capable of lighting a city on fire,”_ as he’d once stated to Hawke. _No wonder she still hates me._

“It’s not _all_ bad,” Petrina went on, breaking his train of thought, “just like Ostwick wasn’t all doom and gloom and arrogant Templars. Orlais isn’t all arrogant rich nobles with more money than sense.”

“True,” he agreed as she slid her rook over a lingering bishop of his, “Ferelden is much the same.”

A laugh escaped her. “Your dogs are worse than your nobles.”

Mabari, she meant. He’d never owned one, being part of the Templars from such a young age. Even Hawke had a mabari that trailed her in Kirkwall, a ferocious beige thing with a dark snout. Rumor went that Queen Brynn Cousland fled Highever Castle that fateful night with her hound in tow. They were loyal beasts, stalwart, fierce. “Not a dog person?” Cullen asked, moving his queen out of its confinement.

“Only when they’re attacking me. You have whole packs out there in the Hinterlands, you know,” Petrina chirped, snatching one of his pawns with her own.

“I’ve never been.”

“Thank the Maker for that, then,” she declared, legs crossing.

He studied the board, focused on her bishop encroaching on his king, the sparsity of his remaining pieces. Hesitant, he pushed a rook over her bishop. “Not fond of the Hinterlands?”

“Too many Templars in the woods for my tastes.” She scrutinized the location of her pieces, white teeth nipping at her lower lip as she concentrated. “It’s also really brown. Ferelden, I mean.”

“I’ll have to show you the parts that aren’t brown, then,” he supposed. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth at the astonishment that rippled across her features. Too soon, that astonishment softened into a dry laugh.

“I suppose I could use the distraction.”

“And you could return the favor,” he went on, boldness gripping him _now_ for whatever reason, “and show me Ostwick.”

“ _Oh_ , that curious about cheese wheel racing, are you?” she asked, wood clacking as she slid her queen across the board.

He stretched his hand across the table. Her queen was within striking distance of his king. The game was hers. “I believe this one is yours,” he said.

“That wasn’t an answer,” she returned, and her fingers skimmed his as she reached past him to collect her stolen pieces to reset the board.

“I’ve never been to Ostwick. It’d be nice to see it,” he said, fighting the numbness clawing at his tongue. _To see a place so important to you, the place that raised you._

“Then I’ll have to show you,” she agreed. He began helping her collect pieces, and his heart leapt to his throat as their hands brushed again. This time, she noticed it too, and warmth scalded him at the pink that blossomed in her cheeks. It was too much to hope for, but that didn’t stop the longing from tugging at his heart.

“I’d like that.”

Her lips lurched up, and his breath hitched. “You said so,” she purred.

His hand shook as it ran down his steaming face. Mute, he helped her reset the board and all but ran back to the ramparts, pausing once to glimpse Rowan staring with glazed eyes from a bench on the grounds. Dorian was at the rogue’s side, rubbing at his back. Not a huge surprise, given that Cullen had learned from Felicity Amell never to trust personal notions of normalcy. The gossiping fools of Skyhold would think otherwise, yet he doubted Rowan Trevelyan had ever cared a fig for others’ opinions of him.

* * *

 

After that chess game with Petrina, Cullen was kept busy with work, preparations for the upcoming ball in Orlais, training, Samson. She was busy too, flitting in and out of Skyhold with various friends. Once, she left at an odd hour in the afternoon with Sera for Verchiel to investigate something one of the Inquisition captains found. Varric had a request that took Petrina into her favorite part of Ferelden, the Hinterlands. On their return, Varric withdrew to Skyhold, spending his days before the fireplace near the entrance that he’d claimed, and Cullen hadn’t the heart to disturb the dwarf. Something happened out there, not that it was his business. A report informed him that Petrina and Varric found the source of the red lyrium: someone he trusted had leaked the key to the thaig containing the infection. The very Bianca who made his crossbow and held his affection.

Josephine found the matter disheartening and sent Varric a box of sweet Orlesian petit fours in an effort at raising his spirits. Cullen found the action endearing, if a bit misplaced. Candy couldn’t amend a betrayal. Still, of all the things that _could’ve_ gone wrong, the red lyrium mess in the Hinterlands proved small compared to what happened next. The Iron Bull got an offer from the Qunari seeking to work with the Inquisition. The new Arishok was more reasonable than the brute that landed in Kirkwall all those years ago. Reforms apparently included seeking alliances with Southern groups seeking to restore order. Mages still had their mouths sewn shut and their bodies turned into weapons, though. The notion of sending Petrina with the Bull to seal the deal evoked nothing but discomfort in Cullen, even with Cassandra and Sera as companions. He slept little those days Petrina was gone to the Storm Coast. News came early before her arrival that the deal fell through. She told him it was the Chargers or the Qun and the Bull chose his family-like mercenary company over a philosophy he scarcely adhered to anymore. Cullen didn’t bother pretending; he was glad the Inquisition wasn’t about to tie its lot to that of the Qun. As were most of the mages in Skyhold, or so he gleaned from eavesdropping and shards of conversation overheard as he navigated his duties.

Somewhere in between all of this, Josephine was knocking on doors and paying off Inquisition bills as merchants poured into Skyhold. Cullen noticed how lavishly some of them dressed, wealth all but oozing from their satin waistcoats and ruffled ascots. It was a disgusting display, to say nothing of how much coin the Inquisition now held. Skyhold no longer resembled the abandoned fortress it had been. The drapes were embroidered with rich patterns, the rooftops solid and repaired, the mages in new robes, and _everyone_ had new weapons along with younger horses. A part of him was unsettled by the sudden surge in fortune they were experiencing. It couldn’t last.

Josephine insisted he was mistaken. This was “just the beginning.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that those who reached dizzying heights were easily shot down. She was harried enough without him pestering her, as Petrina once said. Yet, Cullen had some comfort in the fact that he wasn’t alone in worrying about the Inquisition’s increasing popularity in Orlais. Cassandra was all but paranoid over it.

“We hardly look like a group of the faithful now,” she sneered one night when he found her on the grounds, neck-deep in several papers. That narrow, hawkish chin of hers jutted toward the nearest cluster of Orlesians, all bedecked in pastel velvet and white ermine.

“The ambassador insists that it is _necessary_ ,” Cullen said. He gestured to the papers she held. “What are those?”

“The Inquisitor and I are tracking the Lord Seeker.”

“How goes it?”

“Leliana has her agents investigating.” Cassandra’s nose scrunched, a symbol of determination and disdain in her. “We’ll find him, and Maker willing, the rest.”

Knowing what became of the Templar Order, Cullen wasn’t sure he wanted to learn the Seekers’ fate. They’d kept secrets from the Order, the Divine. Everyone knew it. People talked. Mages, Templars, the Chantry clerics that haunted the Gallows’ halls. _“I heard the Rite of Tranquility can be reversed,”_ Cullen overheard one of the apprentices whispering to Orsino one afternoon after a lecture.

_“Don’t say that so loudly, child,”_ the elf had urged.

Seekers controlled all information related to the Rite’s origins, a potential cure. Cullen knew little else. He didn’t want to know more. “I’m surprised Petrina would agree,” he remarked instead.

“She knows they matter to me, and maybe she hopes to reform them. I’m never sure with her. Perhaps she’s just trying to keep the peace.” Cassandra shook her head, expression shifting into an attempted smile. “She’s difficult to read.”

“She’s from a Circle. In my experience, the mages that survived are those that trusted few and kept their emotions veiled.”

“Yes. I know, but her brother insists that it wasn’t always so.”

“In light of what’s happened regarding Ser Trevelyan in the Emprise, I’d say her caution is warranted.”

Cassandra’s shoulders fell. “I’m not going to argue with you, not when you clearly know her better than the rest of us. For whatever reason.”

Cullen doubted that. Petrina hadn’t trusted him a whit for those precious, yet volatile first few weeks in Haven. The fury each of her looks lashed at him whenever he entered a room or neared her was stamped into his memory. Hatred of that sort wasn’t soon forgotten. Motion fluttered in his periphery. Across the way, he glimpsed Dorian and Rowan strolling the grounds as night beckoned in the skies, hands intertwined. Cassandra followed Cullen’s gaze to the men. “Yes, the _Tevinter_ , of all people,” she said, though she was beaming.

“I thought you couldn’t stand him,” Cullen confessed.

“He grows on you. Like a fungus.”

At the jostle of satin skirts, the warriors rotated to find Josephine striding toward them, flushed as she swatted at strands of hair loosening from her chignon. “Have either of you seen the Inquisitor?” she asked. “I have been searching _everywhere_ …”

“The crackle of parchment pages, the whisper of magic on the air, gentle laughter and intricate conversations.” The trio went rigid as a large hat materialized in the tavern’s shadow. Cole tipped his head toward the main tower looming over their little patch of land. The place Fiona’s mages had claimed as a library and study, apart from the rotunda.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Josephine groused, “I _told_ her to be ready for the fittings today…”

“ _I’ll_ tell her,” Cullen said.

“It’s too late anyway. Tell her to be ready in the morning,” the Antivan ordered, retreating with a prim snap of her heel.

Cullen stalked upstairs to the tower. He entered without knocking, though he earned no favors in doing so. Several mages cast loathing looks in his direction, retreating with books under their arms to distant desks and chairs. Exhaling, he tramped upstairs. She was seated in an armchair, her legs thrown over the arm, snoring into the pages of a book, _The Fade and all its Dangers_. He nudged her knee, just a faint touch. She jolted, removing the book from her face with a groan. Embarrassment settled over her as she drank in his presence, notable by the color creeping into her pallor. “Maker,” she muttered, “did something happen? Has Corypheus attacked us, and is all lost?”

“No,” he said, “not yet.”

“I suppose _someone_ is looking for me, though,” she went on, her head rolling toward him.

“Josephine was mad that you missed your fitting.”

“Ah, so nothing too important then.”

“Depends on who you ask.”

She snorted and, with a languid stretch, laid her book down on the back of her chair. “We’re also getting masks, you know,” she continued, “at Vivienne’s _insistence_ that we play the game _properly_.”

Nose curdling on principle, Cullen prayed his wouldn’t be too ridiculous. “This ball is going to be the death of me.”

“Theatrical, aren’t you? And I thought Orlesians loved their drama.”

A chortle broke his flare of irritation. “I’m surprised you’re so calm. I’m sure many of your suitors will be there.”

“Yes,” she agreed, slipping her legs back over the chair’s arm in one fluid motion, “but I’m sure I’ll be too busy searching for assassins to bother with a few lovesick fools.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yes,” she quipped as she sauntered past him, “lucky me.”

As quiet drew between them, conversation wafted up from the rest of the tower. Orlesian accents, preening and self-assured. “I heard the brother is lying with the _Tevinter_ ,” one of them, a man, sniffed.

“You know _she_ spent time in Vyrantium,” the other, a woman, replied.

Petrina went rigid. With a saccharine smile in Cullen’s direction, she glided downstairs. He trudged after her. Two blonde heads turned toward her as she approached, all sugar-coated politeness and genteel discretion. “Is such gossip common in Orlais? It was my impression that even silver tongues could be cut out.” She pinned dagger-filled glares on the mages. “Odd how those who would besmirch my family’s name have the _gall_ to think themselves legions above a Tevinter altus risking his life for a faith and culture that spurn him with each breath.”

Blanching, the Orlesians ducked their eyes to the red-gold paisley rug between their feet. Cullen drank in a deep breath. The remainder of mages in the area were dead silent, watching her. She doffed a pair of fingers to them on her path out into the night. He was glad she hadn’t set them on fire. “You handled that well.”

“I’ll not have them gossiping about him,” she said, “not when he’s here for me. Not after the Emprise.”

The devotion thrumming in her syllables belied the truth in her words. Admiration slithered through him. He’d never had that courage, not in Kirkwall, not in Ferelden. That reminder wore on him as he found his way back to his loft that night, the ring she’d given him a hulking stone around his neck. There were so many differences between them, and that lack of courage was one of them. She knew what she stood for, while he was fighting for something that didn’t rely on blades and symbols that allegedly were more than aesthetic. He tugged that ring along its cord as he laid in his bed that night, raking it back and forth, hoping the small piece of jewelry could grant him the assurances he sought. Assurances that they wouldn’t all die, that demons wouldn’t swallow the world, that Felicity Amell didn’t remember him as a tyrant, that Petrina would, maybe, one day care for him as he did her. In time, his long breaths and the cloying warmth of his sheets dragged him under to dreams of jeweled masks and Petrina dancing with him, laughing despite his clumsy footwork.

When he woke, it was to giggles beneath his loft. With a groan, he rolled out of bed, dressing in a rush. As he slipped down the ladder, his office doors slammed in unison. Cold gusted in the wake of the mysterious intruders. Jaw tight, he rushed toward his desk. As he sat down to address some letters he hadn’t the chance to deal with the other day, the desk trembled beneath his touch. Irritation settled over him. He knelt and began the tiring task of inspecting all four of the legs. At long last, he caught the source: a wad of paper beneath one of the far legs. Snatching the paper, he smoothed it out to reveal messy doodles of a solemn, dark-haired woman. Bubbles leading to her head were full of cramped writing that read: LADY-BITS. CRANKY. DANCES. FIRE. FIRE=HOT. DON’T PISS OFF. DOESN’T LIKE COOKIES. ~~OR TEMPLARS.~~ HATES TEMPLARS. NOT JACKBOOT. NOT KNIGHT BROTHER. On the back of the paper was another doodle, this time of an armored, pale-haired man embracing the same woman from the other side. The writing under this drawing was harried and frantic: JUST GET IT DONE, ALREADY!!! LOST TEN SOVEREIGNS TO THIS STUPID MESS! DAMN YOU, VARRIC!

_Sera._ Slamming the paper down on his desk, Cullen pushed air through his nostrils. A dwarven scout slipped into the room, and he slid a glare at her. “Sera’s been in here,” he reported, “and when I find out how to do it, I’m going to get her back… somehow…”

“Of course, Ser,” the dwarf said with a dutiful salute.

“You’ll see,” he assured her.

“I’m sure I will,” the dwarf sighed. “The Inquisitor wants an assessment, when you can, of the forces accompanying the Inquisition to the Winter Palace.”

Sobering, Cullen nodded. “Of course.” He returned to the papers on his desk, plucking one of them, a fresh letter, free. One skim was all he needed. Triumph surged through him. They’d found Samson. “Tell the Inquisitor I need to see her when she has time,” Cullen called to the scout, “it concerns Samson.”

The scout was efficient. A moment later, Petrina was through his door, still in her wrapper and shift, an inquiry written on her face. “Samson?”

“We have him. A shrine to the north, a Tevinter ruin,” Cullen said.

“We’ll need to move fast, then.”

“Gather whoever you can, and I’ll meet you at the gates.”

When she was gone, he rushed his armor on, downed a pastry someone had left on a plate near his door, and retrieved his sword and shield. His hands shook as they fastened his blade’s belt around his waist. He stalked downstairs to find Petrina waiting with Cassandra and Varric, plus several horses, including her black mount. “Going after Samson, huh?” Varric asked, grinning up at Petrina. “Sounds like fun.”

“Hunting Templars is always fun,” she tossed back.

“If you’re ever in Kirkwall after this, you and Hawke need to have some drinks together.”

“Andraste preserve us, but that’s the last thing Kirkwall needs,” Cassandra said.

Cullen found Petrina’s piercing silvers fixed on him, pensive, searching. He mounted up, leading them through the gates. She kept pace well with him, and it hit him again that she was used to moving fast. She’d run from Templars all her life, even in the Circle, and then from dragon breath, blood magic, archdemons, a magister darkspawn, _more_ Templars. _With luck, she’ll be able to stop running soon enough._

The ride north took them deep into an arid landscape. They broke to rest their mounts and sleep as black midnight yawned over their heads. Then, they pushed onward into more white sands and sweeping cliffs of sandstone. The ruin was in good shape, all sturdy sandstone walls and black brass spikes. Black smoke plumed against a blue sky as they neared. Cullen’s throat shrank, and he surged his horse into a gallop before continuing on foot to the ruin. Petrina was at his heels, staff ready. “Well, shit,” Varric breathed, the last to trundle into the ruin.

“Seems someone tipped off Samson,” Petrina said.

“The camp might have useful information yet,” Cullen reminded her.

“Let’s spread out,” Cassandra advised, “and be careful. He might have left behind distractions.”

“You mean _sacrifices_ ,” Petrina corrected.

_Yes_ , Cullen agreed, that was precisely what Cassandra meant. Red Templars, those that lingered, tore out to greet the group, including a monstrosity swathed in red lyrium. A behemoth, as Petrina called it. They moved, dodging arrows and well-placed blade swings. Her magic listed in his periphery, fire and the spectral hum of her halberd. “Nice aim, Firestarter!” Varric cheered from a safe distance as an archer fell at her feet.

Cassandra, midway through dispersing a red Templar shadow, emitted a disgusted grunt. Cullen finished off the three archers near him, pushing past the large metal doors into the main building. Past the threshold, everything was on fire. Smoke clogged the air with blue and grey, joining the spiced reek of scorching red lyrium. Petrina was at his side, a hand pressed to her temple. “I hate that stuff,” she decided. “It’s nothing but a headache.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The red lyrium. At least the crystals. They give me quite the headache.”

_Probably because she’s a mage_ , he realized with a jolt of guilt. “You never complained in the Emprise.”

“It’s been worse since the Conclave. Maybe because I smell it everywhere.”

“We’ll be done soon,” he said, a paltry consolation.

“I can endure it.” She uttered those words with a twitch of her brow.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he answered, hand threading through hers without thought. She squeezed her fingers against his.

Together, they glided through deserted rooms adorned in black marble and dark brass filigree. Tevinter built pretty things, whatever Cullen thought of the nation itself. There wasn’t any denying that the culture rivaled that of Orlais as far as beauty went. Yet, the fire and crumbling stone made this difficult to enjoy. Past another set of doors found them in a room unoccupied, swathed in flame, save for a robed man leaned up against a trunk in the back. A man bearing a sunburst brand on his brow. Maddox. A Tranquil Samson had smuggled love letters for back in Kirkwall, leading to Maddox’s Tranquility. Petrina drew back, and Cullen glimpsed the source of her discomfort: a massive spire of red lyrium. She kept her distance as he approached Maddox.

“Hello, Cullen,” the Tranquil intoned. “Inquisitor.” Glazed, scarlet eyes drifted to Petrina.

“Charmed,” she said, and Cullen noted the green whispering at her left hand. She rubbed past the discomfort no doubt gnawing at her veins to ask, “Are you well? You seem… should I get a healer?”

“That would be a waste,” Maddox hummed, “I drank my entire supply of blight cap essence. It won’t be long now.”

“Ah. I suppose mage bane is rather ineffective when you’re…” Petrina let the sentence die with a flourish of her wrist.

“Indeed,” Maddox said.

Disdain rose in Cullen. “You threw your lives away for Samson? _Why_?”

“Samson saved me even before he knew he needed me,” Maddox replied, head dipping as his breaths grew deep. “I wanted… to help.”

A curse tore from Cullen as the Tranquil grew still. “Maker, a dreadful place to die.”

“We’ll build him a pyre,” Petrina recommended. She paused, her attention latching onto something in the shadows. Metal glinted past the flames and darkness, the unnatural red of the crystal. Cullen rammed his shield into the red until it burst into a million pieces, moving past the shattered pillar of red lyrium to the metallic gleam. Odd instruments bedecked the desk. Tools, of some type.

“The fire couldn’t destroy these,” he mused, noting the char marks on them, “whatever they are.”

“Lyrium forging instruments,” she whispered, “they’d be worth a fortune in Vyrantium.” She picked one of the tools up, tracing its long shape with an index finger. “Maddox must have used these to make Samson’s armor.”

Revelation hammered into Cullen. This was the key, then. Samson was gone, but his armor could be broken with these. Dagna worked nothing short of a miracle in crafting Petrina’s staff. That dwarf could possibly unmake Samson’s armor with these tools. “We can break the armor,” Cullen said, taking the tool from Petrina.

“Now you’re thinking like a mage,” she said, winking as she pocketed the remaining tools.

He laughed. “How much time did you spend with Hawke?”

“We’ll get him,” she assured him, “ _I_ will get him.”

“He’s dangerous,” Cullen said, good mood dimming.

“So were all those brutes in Ostwick. I’ve never met a Templar I couldn’t kill, red or not.”

Worry plumed in him. _Samson is no ordinary red Templar._ “Petrina. Please, be cautious, at least…” _For my sake._

She pinned a feral glare on him then, and lit with the stark glow of the flames, the jagged shadows cast by the triangular furniture, he didn’t doubt the determination roaring in that expression. For a minute, he was terrified she was going to set him on fire, but then her red mouth broadened into a grin. “Worried, Cullen?”

A lock of jet hair fell loose beneath the sway of her head, sticking to the sweat beading her cheek. He smoothed it behind her ear without pause. She stiffened at the gesture, and when he glanced down, it was to her tongue darting over her upper lip, a flush rising in her cheeks. Temptation dropped over him as they stood there, drinking in each other’s presence, basking in the firelight. It would’ve been so easy to cup her cheek, dip his lips to hers. Mustering his control, he lowered his hand. Right as his hand fell to his side, a raucous Varric rounded the corner with Cassandra and shouted, “See, Seeker? I told you they weren’t dead!”

Rubbing at his jaw, Cullen nodded against the warmth gripping his face. “Prepare a pyre for Maddox,” he urged. His attention wouldn’t leave Petrina’s features, the color blooming against marzipan skin like flowers in spring. It struck him in that moment just what Dorian and Varric meant with all their meddling. The idiots got one thing right, at least: Cullen’s fancy wasn’t wholly one-sided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was on vacation last week. Just got back in yesterday. Traveled by train, which is lovely. Hate the lack of showers, as I have fine hair, so after like even a moment of missing a wash, it's just the worst. At least it's short now, though. I can hide it better under the baseball cap. Traveling did make me realize that I want to practice law in my home state and city, and I hope that I can do so, that the high rents and competition won't drive me away. I'm not stupid. There are people better than me, more charming, etc. (So that even people not planning to stay here end up taking positions I really want despite me, y'know, being a local and loving the people here.) Ugh. Whatever. That's grown-up, real-world problems.
> 
> This chapter... I like Orsino. I like to believe that he's okay and Varric lied about the guy's fate. I'm on board with that head canon. What ELSE? Oh, I hate chess and suck at it personally, but I like to imagine a Circle mage smarter than me would be alright with it. We're not far away now, I will say that much. As always, thanks for the comments and kudos. I don't always respond, as I don't always have anything to add lol, but I do read them and appreciate them.


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